Goodbye Windows
by thecouchcarrot
Summary: AU, Dean/Cas. Sam and Dean are the heirs to the Winchester fortune. Sam's running for Congress, and Dean is his irresponsible drunk brother, so Sam hires someone to keep him out of trouble - Castiel Smith, a man with his own hidden agenda... Ch. 33: "You'd be a good husband. You don't hog the blankets, you keep a gun under the pillow… You're gonna make someone very happy someday."
1. Chapter 1

A/N: _Hey folks! I haven't published anything in five-ever, so howdy to those of you who remember me! Welcome to an EXTREMELY ill-advised new fic that will probably be super long and pretty angsty but then everyone will hug and crowds will cheer and the kids will make enough money to save the skate park from demolition and Lady and Tramp will have four puppies, three girls and one boy, and the boy one will look *exactly* like his rascally father. _

_Okay, so I'm exaggerating. But you get my drift. _

_I'm in my last year of law school, about to start my last quarter ever, and I am in the throes of finals but for some unknowable reason I decided to start writing this story. It's loosely inspired by the movie _Arthur, _but it ended up being preeetty different. Basically, the premise is that John Winchester was a gajillionaire who died and left all his money to his sons. Sam is pursuing a career in politics while Dean is pursuing a career in doing absolutely nothing with his life except drink and sleep around. With Dean's behavior getting more and more out of control and Sam's campaign for Congress approaching, Sam hires a ~*~ mysterious guy ~*~ to basically be Dean's nanny and keep him in check. Spoiler alert: IT'S CAS! And things go from there. You'll see. This is a Dean/Cas story, but I feel in many ways it is as much about Sam and Dean's relationship and them figuring out how to get back to brotherhood. I wanted to play with their dynamic in an AU setting where they have very different lives than in canon. I've also messed with Cas' life a bit, and that influences his personality - but again, you'll see. No more insider scoop! I've said too much already!_

_I also want to mention that this was originally two chapters, but the first section was pretty short and felt incomplete as a first installment. You'll see where the chapter break would have been, and I just want you to see that and appreciate that I GAVE YOU MORE. _

_Thank you for clicking, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! If you do, please review. If you review, I promise I will send you Jensen Ackles' personal phone number and a list of all the people you could pretend to be for at least 5 minutes of conversation before he would figure it out.* Enjoy!_

_*Author does not have ability to fulfill this promise. Author apologizes for her lack of celebrity connections. _

* * *

In a king sized bed, in an enormous dark room, with the daylight shut out by thick red and gold brocade curtains and the scent of citrus and sweat still lingering in the air, Dean snores.

His phone rings.

Dean snorts awake. He reaches out to grab his phone and his hand lands on the face of a passed-out supermodel, who groans in her sleep and rolls over, dragging the gold satin sheets with her. He fumbles his way over her and grabs his phone, only to have the model on his _other_ side sit up and try to snatch it from him. "Turn it off!" she whines, all bedhead and smeared makeup.

"I'm trying!" he growls. He manages to unlock the screen and answer the call. He scowls and holds it to his throbbing head, then answers groggily, "911, what's your emergency?"

"Where are you?" Sam snaps. "Did you forget about the meeting?"

"Board of trustees?" Dean rubs his eyes. "That's not until 2."

"It's 2:17, Dean."

"Sheeeiiiit." Dean looks to the woman on his left, then to woman on his right. "Guess I'm not gonna make it, then."

"Dean! These people are in charge of your money!"

"I got my best brother there to look out for me!" Dean replies breezily. "Sides, you're better at the money stuff than me, Sammy."

"It's Sam."

"Just make sure that plenty of my assets are available, alright? I ran out of tequila yesterday – well, technically, the three nearest liquor stores ran out – so I'll be sending Jeff out for a supply run today."

He can almost hear Sam's frown. "Dean."

"It was a party! I was hosting! It's not Fashion Week every day. Jeez, unclench a little, Sammy."

"It's _Sam_."

"Anyway, I gotta go, I gotta piss like a racehorse –"

"This is it. I'm hiring you a handler."

Dean freezes. "What? Sam, I am way too old for that shit."

"Apparently not!" Sam's voice is firm, resolute. "You've been blowing me off left and right, and my campaign manager has been pressuring me to do this for months already. You're getting a handler."

"You can't just – just decide that!" Dean argues. "I'm an adult, I say who is or is not in charge of me!"

"Well, right now, I'm downtown with board of trustees, and you're not. So you can either accept a handler and do _exactly_ what he says, or I can make a stunning, eloquent speech about all the reasons your distributions should be cut back for the foreseeable future."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. "Sam. Please. Come on. I – I can do better."

Sam pauses.

"Fine," he finally says. "You have a week to show me you can be an adult. One week. You need to _grow up_, Dean."

"Peachy," Dean barks, and he hangs up.

He throws the phone into the nearby ice bucket, which is now just full of melted water. "Bitch," he mutters.

The woman on his right rubs his shoulder. "Hey baby," she says soothingly, "let's have some breakfast."

"Alright," Dean sighs. "But not until I get a drink."

….

Dean wanders around the mansion in his boxers and a smoking jacket with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He stop every so often to admire some artwork and take a swig. "Don't remember buying that one," he mumbles several times. He runs into his head chef Jeff in the kitchen, and directs him to make breakfast for the girls and anyone else who might be sleeping it off around the estate.

He grabs a cigar from the foyer and makes his way down out to the back lawn. The afternoon sun sears brightly into his eyes and pricks at his skin; he winces and squints. He pats his pocket for his phone so he can call Louise and have her bring his sunglasses, and then remembers what he did to his phone. "Mistakes," he mutters. "Mistakes were made." He stumbles back inside.

He plays videogames for a couple of hours.

He gives a tour of the menagerie and introduces the girls to his tigers. "I tried playing Eye of the Tiger for them once," he tells them. "They were _not_ fans."

One of the girls wants to screw again, and he gladly obliges her. He takes her down to the theater room and tells the kid at the projector to run Rocky Horror Picture Show again, and they fuck to the Time Warp, which is pretty awesome.

He finishes his bottle of whiskey. Allie brings him a Bloody Mary, because she knows it's the only way he'll eat any vegetables. She also brings him a new phone.

He finishes his Bloody Mary and takes a bath with three more models he found upstairs in the library. He's a little too drunk for sex now, but he makes a valiant attempt. The girls coo and reassure him. He hops out of the bath and throws on a blue terry bathrobe. "Time for lunch!" he shouts, pulling a bottle of gin out of his bathroom liquor cabinet.

Lunch is burgers and steak fries ala Jeff. The models glare at him enviously as he wolfs down his burger, and ask the server if they can just have salad. He grins with a mouth full of half-chewed beef.

After lunch, he lays on the sofa and watches reruns of A-Team with a beer in his hand. The girls lounge around him in various states of undress.

"I'm bored," he announces.

"Karaoke?" one model suggests.

"Let's go swimming!" another pipes up. "Where's your pool?"

Dean sits up, and smiles broadly at the would-be swimmer. "My pool? Babe, I've got a _jet_. My pool is the _ocean_." His smile falters. "I mean, okay, I've also got a pool, but… you get my point."

So they fly to Dean's island just off the coast.

They swim and eat barbecue and drink champagne and sun themselves on the beach and until it gets dark, and then they fly back to the estate. Several of the girls leave, and as they make their goodbyes, Louise slips discreet folds of hundred dollar bills into their hands as party favors, just as instructed. Dean pretends not to notice.

"Let's partaaaay!" he hollers to the remaining girls.

They all pour shots down their throats and pop pills and snort lines of coke off his mirrored bedroom table, and Dean is so high and drunk and horny all at once that for a moment he thinks he might actually be happy.

Then he hears it.

_This is it. _

_You have a week to show me you can be an adult. One week. _

The memory plays in his head without warning. Sam's voice, dripping with disgust. _You need to _grow up, _Dean._

One of the girls, a redhead, paws at his crotch and licks the side of his neck, and the sensation sends a slick of nausea down the back of his throat.

"I need some air," Dean mumbles. The room tilts and swirls around him.

Sam's voice, dripping with disgust. _Grow up._

He walks down the hall and the girls trail after him, laughing and chattering. The laughter is bubbling and contagious, a reflex, a hiccup, a mirror, stimulus response stimulus response and it boils up inside of Dean until he is giggling and giggling and giggling and the sides of his stomach beg him to stop.

Allie sees him and knows where he's going. She tries to tell him he can't. He shoves her off of him, shoves her so hard she falls to the ground. "You're fired!" he declares. The cascade of his own laughter rings in his ears. _Grow up_.

He makes it to the garage before anyone else catches him. _Grow up._

He fumbles with the keys, trying sluggishly to slide them into the lock. _Grow up._

Four girls squeeze into the convertible. _Grow up_.

He peels down the front gravel drive, pedal to the floor, roof down, girls screaming in delight, wind in his hair, laughing so hard it hurts, so hard he's wheezing, so hard his throat burns, lights and landmarks streaking by him so quickly they are smears in his vision, a blur, his head buzzing and his heart thumping in his white-knuckle clenched hands, and he doesn't need a week, doesn't need Sam, can't shake that voice in his head _grow up you fuck-up you fuck-up you worthless piece of shit_, and he sucks in his breath to keep it all in, gasping, and he whizzes by the other cars and he chokes and he starts sobbing, sobbing, and he closes his eyes –

...

...

...

...

Sam Winchester sits across from Castiel, leafing through his application. The young politician is everything Castiel expected – crisp, warm but formal, eager to gladhand. His hair is parted to the side and combed back in a way that suggests John F. Kennedy, and even in his brother's home his tie is knotted snugly against his buttoned collar. The room, too, is much what Castiel expected; the parlor is a tasteful pastel green, with finely upholstered mahogany chairs and matching tea table. All of the pieces look brand new. Sam's doing, most likely.

"I really appreciate you coming out here," Sam says. "Zach had only great things to say about you."

Castiel says nothing.

Sam looks up from the papers. "You have quite an impressive resume, Castiel."

"Thank you," Castiel says.

"Can I ask –" Sam hesitates. "Castiel, you're overqualified. This position is for – well, you'd be a glorified babysitter. Why do you want to take this job?"

Castiel clasps his hands. "I'm between projects right now. I like to keep busy."

Sam nods hesitantly. "I see…"

"You're also offering seven times the salary I normally make," Castiel adds.

Sam chuckles and stacks the papers together. "Oh, when you meet him, you'll see why. Dean is…. He's kind of a handful."

Castiel cocks his head slightly, unpacking the phrase in his mind. "If you could describe your brother in one word," he says, "what would it be?"

Sam looks surprised, then considers. "I'd say…." His mouth twists, and he rakes his hand through his hair. "Well, to be perfectly honest, I'd say… self-absorbed."

Castiel stands up. "Thank you. When will I hear back from you?"

Sam stands up quickly. "Whoa, whoa, wait, don't you want to meet Dean before you go?"

Castiel purses his lips. "If you think I should."

Sam steps closer and claps him on the back. "Believe me, you should know what you're getting into."

…

The estate is large, and the parlor is far from their destination. On the way, Sam talks.

"I don't know how much you know about Dean's situation," he begins. "I'm guessing you've done your research, but… I'll give you a quick rundown from the inside. You heard about the crash?"

Castiel nods.

Sam's jaw tightens. "Thank God no one was seriously hurt. It was Dean's first DUI, so he only had a day in jail. And he had to complete an alcohol treatment program to ever _hope_ to ever get his license back. He had to wear one of those SCRAM bracelets that measures alcohol intake, so he's definitely been dry these past three months, but…" Sam glances sidelong at Castiel. "He finished the program yesterday, and they took it off. So I'm not sure how long he'll be sober." He scratches the back of his neck. "But who knows. Maybe…" He trails off, his eyes growing distant.

Then he blinks and coughs self-consciously. He walks a little faster.

Castiel surveys the high-ceilinged foyer as they pass through, peering up the velvet-carpeted horseshoe staircase towards the dark bedroom hallways. "What was your father like?"

Sam looks taken aback, and starts walking up the stairs. "Our dad? He was… just about everything Time Magazine said he was. He started as a college dropout working out of his garage. He formed the company just before I was born, and I was only in second grade when they went public. He was a millionaire overnight, a billionaire pretty quickly after that, and the company exploded. Dad was brilliant, but more than that – he was incredibly driven. He worked eighty hours a week and never let up." Sam huffs a sarcastic laugh. "And that's exactly what killed him! He could never stop going. He never listened to us."

They reach the top of the stairs. Sam turns to Castiel. "Why do you ask?"

"I always ask. Knowing information about the family background helps me to understand the client," Castiel explains.

Sam frowns. "But you didn't even want to meet Dean."

Castiel stares at him evenly. "_You_ are the client, Sam."

Sam blinks. "What?"

"You are considering hiring me," Castiel says. "You are the person I must satisfy. It is important that I understand your goals and expectations."

"My goals –" Sam makes a noise of frustration. "Look, my only goals are that Dean doesn't kill himself or kill somebody else. I'd like to keep him out of the headlines if possible, at least until after the election, but that's incidental to keeping him safe. And if someone could get him to give a damn about something, _anything_, I'd be over the moon, but I've been trying for six years and nothing's worked so far." His nostrils flare, and his fists are tight at his sides. "I know what it looks like, but I'm not hiring someone for _me_, Castiel. I'm hiring someone for _Dean_."

The first surprise of the day. "I understand," Castiel replies, and he revises his mental assessment of Sam. "But then why did you wait so long to look for someone? It's been three months since the crash."

A flush rises on Sam's cheeks. "I, uh, I didn't wait. I've hired… four people so far. Couldn't get any of them to stick. Zach gave me your name when I told him how much trouble I was having."

"Why did they leave?"

Sam exhales. "I'm not exactly sure. Dean is annoying, but at the salary I'm offering – I grew up with the guy, he's not _that_ annoying. I track his finances and I know he didn't pay them off, but I think he might have blackmailed them. He's pretty good at hacking into email accounts, and everybody has their dirt." He gives Castiel a calculating look. "He'll probably try the same thing with you. Got any skeletons you need to keep buried?"

Castiel gazes back at him evenly. "I don't think he'll find much."

Sam holds his gaze for a long moment, and then turns to lead him down the hall. "I think Dean's in the music room…"

The door to the music room is large and black. "It's soundproofed, so… brace yourself," Sam warns.

He opens the door.

The wall of sound hits Castiel in the pit of his stomach, thumping in his bones and vibrating through his chest. Instruments are scattered throughout the room – grand piano, cello, pipe organ – and in the back is a small stage, where a five-man band is plugged in and playing classic driving energetic rock music. Drums, synthesizer, electric guitar, electric bass, all dressed in black. Castiel recognizes the song as "Juke Box Hero" by Foreigner, and recognizes the man next to the guitarist, holding the microphone stand close in one hand and singing at the top of his lungs.

His sleeveless black shirt accentuates his tanned, muscular arms; acid washed jeans, bare feet, and his gelled-up hair complete the costume. He has dressed for the part. Dean leans into the mic and belts the second verse. "_In a town without a name/ in a heavy downpour/ thought he passed his own shadow/ by the backstage door!_"

Sam and Castiel approach the stage. "Dean!" Sam shouts. "Dean! Stop the music!"

Dean sees them, and yanks the microphone out of its stand. The band is perfectly in tune, and the music pounds relentlessly through the amplifiers. "_Like a trip through the past!_" he screams into the mic. "_To that day in the rain! And that ONE guitar!_" He locks eyes with Castiel, and winks. "_Made his whole life change…_"

A strange thrill courses through Castiel, and the hairs on his arms stand up.

Unexpected.

"_Now he needs to keep rockin', he just can't stop!_" Dean points to Sam and bangs his head to the beat. "_Gotta keep on rockin', that boy has got to stay on top!_" He jumps in the air in time to the chorus. "_And be a JUKE! BOX! HEROOOOOO! GOT STARS IN HIS EYES!_"

"Dean!" Sam yells. "I don't have all day!"

"_JUKE! BOX! HEROOOOOO!_"

"Dean!"

"_JUKE! BOX! HEROOOOOO!_"

Sam walks up to the large speakers and yanks the plug out of the wall.

The band clatters to a stop, and Dean shoves the mike back in the stand. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he yells, jumping off the stage. "This is sensitive equipment, Sam!"

Sam narrows his eyes. "Yeah, I think you can afford to replace it."

Dean wipes the sweat from his brow with his forearm and glares at Sam as he catches his breath.

The tension between the two brothers is palpable. They stand five feet apart, and the air between them almost ripples with antagonism. Dean lifts his chin slightly, puffing up his chest, and then sways a little where he stands.

"Have you been drinking?" Sam asks sharply.

Dean shrugs.

Sam's mouth is a thin-pressed angry line, and his eyes shine bright and breaking.

Dean turns to Castiel and smirks. "Who's number five?"

"I am Castiel," Castiel answers.

Dean puts his hand to his chest with a theatrical flourish. "_I_ am Dean."

"I know."

He looks Castiel up and down, and then looks at Sam as though suppressing a laugh. Then he coughs into his fist and frowns mock-seriously at Castiel. "So you're vying for the prestigious job of Dean Winchester's butler?"

"Not a butler," Sam cuts in.

"Bodyguard?" Dean suggests.

Sam snorts. "Seriously?"

"Personal assistant," Dean amends.

Sam sighs. "Sure."

"I am," Castiel answers.

Dean claps his hands and rubs them together. "Alright then. I have some questions for you. Do you like piña coladas?"

"No."

"Getting caught in the rain?"

"… No."

"Are you into yoga?"

Castiel frowns. "I fail to see how that is relevant to the job description."

"Ahhh, I'm so sorry, the answer we were looking for was 'not into yoga,'" Dean replies brightly. "Buh-bye, have a nice life, and don't forget to steal something on your way out!" He spins on his heel and goes to heave himself back on the stage.

"Wait." Castiel turns to Sam. "Is it alright if I speak to Dean alone?"

Dean stops and looks back over his shoulder.

Sam stares at Dean and puts his hands in his pockets. "I… suppose."

Castiel turns back to Dean. "Can we talk for a moment?"

Dean sighs and slides down from the stage. "Fiiiiiiiine."

…

The bedroom is large and cluttered. Castiel can tell that Dean has refused to let anyone tidy it. Magazines, DVDs, and video games are stacked on every surface; every piece of furniture has a teetering pile of gadgets or snack cakes or model cars balanced on it precariously. A mountain of clothing sits next to his closet door. Dean collapses into a bean bag chair and lays with his head thrown back, staring at the ceiling, refusing to look at Castiel. "What'd you wanna ask me?"

Castiel looks around at the room, cataloging its contents. "If you could describe yourself in one word, what would it be?"

Dean lifts his head up and smiles sardonically. "Adorable."

"What was your father like?"

He lays his head back again. "Busy."

"Is there anything you think I should know before I take this job?"

Dean lays silent for a long moment.

His adam's apple bobs along his outstretched neck.

"It was my first DUI," he says. "Wasn't the first time I've driven drunk. Not by a long shot." He shuts his eyes.

Castiel slowly steps closer, watching the way Dean's body tenses with every step. "Anything else?"

"I'll make your life hell." His voice is low and hoarse. "I will. And I'll laugh while I do, because I've got nothing goddamn better to do than fuck with you and drag you down into the slime and filth and watch you suffocate in it."

"Is that a threat?"

Dean's eyes stay shut. "It's a promise."

Castiel stands next to Dean and looks down at him, leaning directly over him, and then says his next words carefully and cleanly, like the glinting edge of a heavy knife. "_Do you know who I am?_"

Dean's eyes snap open.

"You are a man of incredible importance, Dean Winchester. You were born with great purpose into a world of opportunity." He doesn't waver in his gaze, doesn't flinch. "Until your father's death six years ago, you were poised to fulfill every hope, every expectation, every legacy given to you at birth, and instead you have chosen to live like this. To _wallow_ in meaningless hedonism."

Dean's fingers dig into the bean bag chair.

"But the people I work for know that you still have the potential to shape the course of history. They sent me here to show you how, because _that is what I do_." He leans in closer and growls through his teeth. "Do you think I am impressed by your childish tantrums? Do you think that by screwing socialites and snorting coke you can shock me with your _depravity_? Dean, you have the power to build and destroy entire nations_, _and you are making model cars in your bedroom. You have not even begun to _imagine_ what it would take to shock me." He bends down even closer, putting his hand to the right of Dean's head and bracing himself on the bean bag chair, breathing in Dean's sour whiskey breath, watching his pupils expand and contract. "You want to make my life hell? I welcome you to try." He drops his voice to a harsh whisper. "But if you want to break me, Dean Winchester, you are going to have to think. _Big_."

Dean stares up at him, and breathes, "_Who are you_?"

"My name is Castiel," he answers, "and I'm the man who's going to save your life."

Then he pulls back, stands up, and buttons his suit jacket. He walks out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him.

Dean remains frozen in place in his bean bag chair.

He doesn't get up for awhile.

…

"Thank you again for coming out," Sam says, leading Castiel to the door. "I'll get in touch in a couple of days and let you know, but honestly, I'm pretty sure that –"

Sam's phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket and frowns; it's Dean calling. "Sorry, let me just get this real quick." He answers the call.

"Sam?" Dean asks, loud and frantic. "You still with that Castiel guy?"

"Yes," Sam answers. "Why?"

"Sam, Sammy, please, _please_ do not hire him," he pleads. "The guy is a lunatic, I'm serious, he's fucking batshit crazy! Does he even have a last name?! Sam, he cornered me in my room and said he's working for the motherfucking Illuminati or some shit and then he _threatened_ me –"

"Did you threaten him first?"

Silence.

"Goodbye, Dean." Sam hangs up. He turns back to Castiel.

Castiel's mouth turns up at the corners in the barest hint of a smile.

Sam slides his phone into his pocket and beams. "So, when can you start?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _Hello, my darling dewdrops! Sorry this update took awhile - I'm hoping to get out a chapter a week, and this is a little overdue. I set a brief part of the story in Cambodia, and I would like to put out the disclaimer now that I have never been to Cambodia and I've done only very superficial research about the area. If I get anything wrong or say something offensive, I preemptively apologize. I deliberately chose a very impoverished area of the country, so my description is not meant to be representative of the whole place. _

_Thank you all for reading the first chapter and leaving such nice comments. You all are fabulous ravishing rockstars and I love you all so much! If you review this chapter, I will mash up a bunch of grapes with my feet and then leave them sitting out for awhile and then send you bottles of my signature _Couchcarrot Pinot Noir!_ "When you don't have anything else to drink, drink Couchcarrot."_®

_Oh! Also, I forgot to mention that the title of the story comes from the song "White Room" by Cream. If you haven't heard that song before, GO LISTEN TO IT. IT IS AWESOME. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Nine years ago, somewhere in rural Pailin, Cambodia**

The night is stiflingly warm, and Sam is having a hard time falling asleep. He's been here two months now and he still hasn't gotten totally adjusted; even wearing nothing but his boxers, he can feel the sweat trickling down his skin. He sighs and stretches his arms farther above his head.

An engine rumbles by outside, and then suddenly dies.

A car door slams.

Sam's eyes snap open. He sits up and lifts up the edge of the mosquito netting and begins to crawl out from his bed.

Voices, men's voices. Footsteps coming up the wooden steps.

Sam scrambles for his lantern and, at the last second, grabs one of his shoes. He doesn't turn the lantern on.

A dark figure stands silhouetted in the doorway. Silent.

Sam holds his breath.

The man walks forward.

Sam hurls his shoe at the man's head and makes a break for the door.

"Ow, Jesus!" the man shouts, grabbing at Sam and catching his arm. "Sam, it's me!"

Sam freezes.

The hand tightens and shakes his arm. "Sammy! It's _me_!"

Sam lifts the lantern, and clicks it on.

His brother Dean is standing there, wincing at the brightness of the light, a red mark swelling on his cheekbone. He's wearing an expensive suit, the collar already soaked through with sweat, and he looks _ridiculous_.

"How did you find me?" Sam demands.

"Christ, your hair has gotten long!" Dean squints at him. "You thought we didn't know where you were? Your father is a fucking multi-billionaire, Sam. Of course he knows where you are."

"But – I'm in the middle of nowhere!" Sam exclaims. "We don't even have an electric grid out here!"

"Tell me about it," Dean grouses. "Everything is just dirt and plants out here. Did you realize your hut is on stilts?"

"It's not a _hut_," Sam snaps. "Just because it doesn't have – have – have _chandeliers_ doesn't mean it's not a real house!"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"You're just lucky my roomates aren't here tonight," Sam says. "You'd have scared the shit out of them!"

"_Roommates_?" Dean balks. "This is a _studio layout! _Do you guys sleep in the same bed, too?"

"Why are you here?" Sam asks. "It's been over a year!"

Dean clenches his hands, and his eyes narrow. "Why am _I_ here?" he retorts. "What the hell are _you_ doing here, Sam?"

"Helping people," Sam shoots back. "Actually making a difference in the world."

Dean looks around the small wooden house, glancing at the clothesline strung over the stove and the woven mat under the mosquito netting. "And it looks like you're doing a bang-up job," he remarks sarcastically. "What is it that you're doing for the locals, huh? You helpin' them build more 'houses?' Because I gotta say, this one is kind of a shithole."

"This area has just been cleared of land mines," Sam answers, his jaw clenched and his teeth gritted. "I'm part of a program to help the local agricultural economy. I teach a class on basic finance. Unlike some people, I want to actually do good in the world, instead just cranking cogs in the corporate machine!"

Dean looks at him. "You're an idiot."

Sam is ready to punch him. "No, I'm not."

Dean wipes the sweat from his forehead. "You think this is what they need? You think they need you playing professor? Sam, you have _money_. You could _buy_ these people an electrical grid."

"What they _need_ is bodies on the ground!" Sam insists. "You can't just throw money at people and expect that to solve their problems. You know nothing about this culture, nothing about this community, and you think you've got all the answers. God, it is just like you, just like you to have such a _narrow imperialist worldview_ –"

"_Sam_." Dean yanks his tie loose. "You're such a fucking idiot. I know all of that. That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying – all that shit you want to do? All the local microfinancing education you're trying to do? All those NGOs you want to support? Money makes that happen. Money builds the infrastructure. Where do you think all of our charity money goes? Did you think that was just a tax write-off? Dad's foundation has an _entire_ _program_ in Pailin devoted to malaria prevention."

Sam blinks. "He. He does?"

Dean glares at him. "_Yes_. And there's a water and sanitation program, and also these programs aren't just in Cambodia, it's in Laos and Kenya and Tanzania and like a million other developing nations. And you would know all that if you had even _mentioned_ any of this shit before running away."

"I didn't run away," Sam mumbles.

Dean glares.

"Okay, I sort of ran away," Sam admits.

Dean sighs and wipes his brow again. "Jesus, it's hot as balls here."

"Why are you here?" Sam asks again. "Why now? You didn't come after me when I left."

"Well, when Dad said you went to Brazil, I assumed it was some sort of stupid Bruce Wayne thing," Dean answers, shrugging. "I thought you wanted to live in the favelas and 'learn the meaning of inner wealth' or some shit like that. I didn't know you'd moved until a couple days ago."

"So why. Now?" Sam presses.

Dean swallows and looks at the floor. "Dad wants you to come home."

Sam frowns. "Why? What happened?"

"He's fine," Dean assures him. "He just had a… myocardial incident –"

"He had a heart attack?!" Sam grabs Dean by the arm. "When? What happened? Did they operate?"

"See, this is why I came to you in person," Dean says. "Dad's fine, it wasn't even a heart attack, it was just arrhythmia, but the doctors say he needs to reduce his stress. He's going to start making preparations to step down as CEO."

Sam lets go of Dean's arm.

He stares at Dean.

"Oh my God," Sam says. "You're taking over the company?"

Dean swallows again, and looks away from Sam. "No."

"What?" The bottom drops out of Sam's stomach, and his knuckles are white as he clutches the handle of the lantern. "Dean, you have to do it. I know it's a huge responsibility but you can handle it! You've been working under Dad since you could walk – and don't tell me Rutger can take the job. That man will run the company into the _ground_ –"

Dean closes his eyes. "Sam. No." He opens them again, and looks straight into Sam, and the words wrench out of him. "Dad wants _you_ to come home."

Sam's chest squeezes tight.

He opens his mouth to say something, and nothing comes out.

"I'm the only one who knows," Dean says. "There won't be any pressure when you get back. He knows you won't be ready right away."

"I won't be ready _ever_," Sam croaks. "I can't – _you_ went to business school –" He walks away from Dean and towards the window of the house, and he looks out at the village at night. He sets down the lantern.

Out the window, the night is dark and quiet. Peaceful. The sky is dark and so clear that Sam can see millions of stars. Pinprick points of light shining from years away, dappling the darkness under a sharp white crescent moon.

Soft footsteps behind him, and then he can feel Dean's presence just behind his shoulder. "I've got a knack for business, but I'm not smart like you, Sam. You've got Dad's brain," Dean says quietly. "I understand the software, but only up to a point. You – you can _write_ the software. You can develop it. You were pretty much the brains behind the X220 program and you were _sixteen_. You are gonna be able to see where to take the company, what moves to make, how to outmatch our competitors."

"That's not what it takes to be a good CEO," Sam says.

"It's not the _only_ thing it takes." Dean puts a hand on his shoulder. "You've got everything else, too. You've got the drive, the common sense, the tenacity. You can do this." He squeezes Sam's shoulder. "And you can do so much good, Sammy. I swear. You can change the world."

Sam gazes out at the sleeping village.

"This isn't what I want," he whispers.

"Just come home," Dean says softly. "See Dad. Talk to him. You don't have to decide tonight. But don't back out of this just because you're afraid. I've got years of experience doing this stuff. I won't let you screw it up. I'll be right there, every step of the way."

Sam closes his eyes.

"I'll come back. But just to see Dad. I need to be back here by Monday to finish my class, and then… I'll need some time think."

"Back by Monday," Dean agrees. "I'll have you back by Monday."

…...

**Now**

Dean decides to break a lot of things.

He orders a full set of dishware and a brand new china cabinet to be delivered from a local department store and has it set out in the courtyard.

"I HATE HIM!" he shouts as he yanks out china plates and smashes them on the ground. "WHO THE FUCK DOES HE THINK HE IS?" He shatters a bowl on the flagstones and stomps the crunchy pieces for good measure.

"Who?" Louise asks timidly, adjusting her goggles. Her gray hair is tucked back in a tight bun and there are flecks of porcelain speckled across her green cardigan.

"That DOUCHE!" Dean grabs a glass tumbler and hurls it at the cupid statue rising up from the center of the courtyard fountain. It bursts into glittering fragments. "CASTIEL! Even his NAME sucks!"

"I wish you would wear the goggles," Louise murmurs.

"NOT NOW, LOUISE!"

He finishes with the dishes and hefts up his sledgehammer onto his shoulder, eyeing the cabinet with a savage gleam of anticipation. "Get me Jerry on the phone," he orders. "I'm gonna need three guys on this. I want his previous addresses, his birth records, his elementary school – I want every parking ticket he's ever gotten. I want them digging up everything there is to know about Castiel… Castiel…" He grits his teeth and lifts the sledgehammer over his head. "GODDAMNIT!" he hollers, swinging the hammer down and smashing the china cabinet down the middle into splinters of wood and glass. "I STILL DON'T KNOW HIS LAST NAME!"

….

"His last name is Smith," Sam says.

"SMITH?" Dean exclaims, his voice tinny in the receiver. "There's no way that's his real name, Sam!"

"Look, Dean, he checks out," Sam sighs. "I've already run a pretty thorough background check, and he's legit. Besides, he comes highly recommended. He's been a PR manager for some extremely high-profile folks overseas."

"Oh, who, like _VLADIMIR PUTIN?_" Dean demands. "He's probably a communist spy, Sam! Is that what you want? You want me to be brainwashed by communists?!"

Sam rolls his eyes and throws his hand up, even though Dean can't see it. "Sure, Dean! At least they'd teach you some world history! God knows you need it."

"HA HA WHAT A GREAT JOKE. Well, you know what else the Russians have? _Vodka._"

Sam's fingers tighten on the phone. "That's not funny, Dean."

"Oh ho ho, how quickly the tables turn! I'm suddenly seeing the silver lining of my future expatriate status. I bet they'd let me run the Stolichnaya distillery…"

Sam hangs up on him.

….

When Castiel arrives the next day, Dean is waiting for him in the foyer. As soon he hears Miguel let him in, Dean makes himself busy with his back to the door.

He waits for the footsteps to stop. "Mr. Winchester," Miguel says.

Dean spins around. "Oh, hello!" he exclaims. "You've just caught me in the middle of cleaning my gun collection!"

The foyer is filled with guns, all different types of guns, laid out on trays and ready to be loaded. Antique muskets, vintage shotguns, semiautomatic pistols, even a few automatic machine guns. Dean smiles with a closed mouth and rubs the barrel of a hunting rifle with a polishing cloth. "I have a lot of guns," he says.

Castiel has arrived for work in a black suit and a blue tie, even though it's the middle of summer, and Dean hates him for it. Castiel surveys the impressive assemblage of weaponry around him. Infuriatingly, he seems completely at ease. "It's a fine collection," he says. "Do you normally clean them yourself?"

"Oh, psh, of course," Dean scoffs. "It's just the kinda guy I am. I'm a real… hands-on, salt of the earth type. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Castiel glances at the gun in Dean's hands. "Funny," he says.

Dean frowns at the rifle. "What?"

Castiel's face is completely deadpan, devoid of amusement. "The rifle. It's a Winchester."

"Oh. Right. Of course." Dean squints at the rifle and then sets it down. "Okay, how about I give you the grand tour?"

They leave the foyer together. Miguel looks at the guns strewn all around him and sighs, then starts collecting them back up.

…

"So, up the stairs there is the go-fuck-yourself room," Dean explains, point up the staircase as they walk past it, "and just down the hall is the room where you can go fuck yourself. And right down this way is the kitchen, and then the dining room, and then through the dining room is the fuck-yourself-with-a-cactus. Don't worry, I know it's a lot to take in at once but you'll get oriented quickly."

Castiel has a strange look on his face – not quite a smile, just a humored sort of look. Dean doesn't like it.

Dean stops in front of an innocuous door and grabs the handle. "And here," he announces grandly, "is where you'll be staying!" He throws open the door.

Castiel stares at him. "I won't be living with you."

Dean frowns. "But I decorated this room all special!"

Castiel glances inside. "This is a closet full of cleaning supplies, Dean."

"That I picked out for _you_," Dean insists. "You're really hurting my feelings here, Cas buddy."

"I will continue living at my current residence," Castiel tells him.

Dean sighs. "Look, assface, I'm just kidding about the closet. You can stay in one of the other bedrooms, I have like nineteen of them. Just don't touch anything, or arrange anything, or breathe on anything, and no thumbtacks in the walls."

"No thank you," Castiel says.

Dean frowns again. "Wait, you're serious?"

"Yes."

"You're not going to live here?"

"No."

"That doesn't make any sense! You have to live here! How are you supposed to keep tabs on me if you don't live here?" Dean demands. "I keep very erratic hours!"

Castiel's eyebrows knot together. "Do any of your other staff live here?"

Dean opens his mouth, and then shuts it.

"_Jeff_!" he hollers toward the kitchen. "_Hey Jeff!"_

"_Yes?_" comes the muffled distant response.

"_Jeff, do you live here?!_"

A long pause. "… _No!" _

Castiel is staring at Dean like he's from Mars.

"Well, I guess Jeff doesn't live here," Dean concludes. "I think Miguel and Louise do, though. Trust me, it'd be totally normal."

Castiel gives him a long, inscrutable look.

"What?" Dean asks, scowling.

"You're not bad at this," Castiel says.

"Not bad at what?"

"Conniving."

"What? Puh! Whuh! Shppeh! Conniving! I'm not _conniving_," Dean protests unconvincingly.

Castiel exhales heavily. "You're making a baldfaced attempt to get me to live here so I'll use my personal computer here, and then you can use the wifi to get access or simply access the computer itself."

Dean blinks, and puts on a very pained expression – the face of someone who has been foiled.

That look again, that _humored_ look is on Castiel's face. He steps in closer to Dean and leans in, as though telling a secret. "But the real trick is, you don't really want me to live here. You _want_ me to see through it. You want me to believe you're that transparent. Not bad, Dean."

Dean's pained expression shrinks, and real heat rises in his face.

Castiel stares into his eyes. "I apologize for being brusque yesterday."

"What?" Dean asks.

"Yesterday I said you were wasting your life wallowing in meaningless hedonism," Castiel reminds him.

"What? No – Jesus – of course I remember –" Dean shakes his head in exasperation. "But what does that have to do with me… conniving?"

Castiel is still standing too close, his gaze too intent, his voice too low. "I wasn't angry with you because I think you're an idiot. I was angry because I know you're incredibly smart."

Dean has no idea what to do except stand there frozen.

Castiel's eyes are apologetic, his mouth twisted inward. "Because of that, I can't just excuse the incredibly stupid things you do. You really do know better."

"You – you don't even know me," Dean stammers. "I'm not incredibly smart, I'm not even regular smart!"

And Castiel stares at him, and leans in even further, and frowns in disbelief.

"_What_?" Dean demands.

Castiel says in an incredulous voice, "You actually believe that, don't you?"

Dean's stomach clenches painfully, and his skin flashes hot all over.

"You should really see a therapist," Castiel says.

Dean tries to say something cutting, but his voice squeaks on the way out. "F- fuck you."

Castiel leans back, and gives Dean a final pitying look before turning away and walking into the kitchen.

Dean stares after him, and truly realizes for the first time:

he is way, way out of his depth.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _So, uh, this chapter got away from me. It ended up being totally different from how I envisioned it, but hopefully in a good way! But it also ended up being really long, so I apologize. I think the ideal chapter length is only about 2,000 words, and this one is 4600, but pacing-wise I didn't want to split it up. OH WELL. _

_Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed. I appreciate you guys so much; it's so much more fun to write when you know people out there are reading and waiting for the next chapter. If you review this chapter, I will reward you with... your very own off-season _Halloween Hijinks Castiel!® _Castiel doesn't understand Halloween - but that won't stop him from trick-or-treating! _Halloween Hijinks Castiel® _comes dressed in a black suit, blue tie, and tan trenchcoat, accessorized with an empty five-gallon bucket and a pair of white, furry bunny ears. Use him to terrify local children and test the strength of your neighborhood watch program! Order now and get him and ALL his accessories for the low low price of ONE REVIEW! (While supplies last). _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Castiel helps himself to Dean's kitchen refrigerator.

Dean scowls and watches him digging through the varieties of lunchmeat. "So. You a communist?"

Castiel selects a bag of roasted turkey. "No."

"You some sort of Freemason?"

Castiel drops the bag of turkey on the counter and gives him a deprecating look. "No. Where is your bread?"

"Why don't _you_ find it, you Illuminati motherfucker," Dean snaps.

Castiel proceeds to open each of Dean's cupboards and look through the contents of the shelves. "I'm not Illuminati." He finds the bread cupboard and pulls out a loaf of sliced sourdough.

Dean slaps both hands on the marble-topped island and leans forward. "Then _who_ do you work for?"

"I can't discuss it here." Castiel layers a few slices of turkey on the plain bread and closes the sandwich. "I will tell you more when there is an appropriate time and place to talk about it." He lifts the sandwich.

"Whoa whoa whoa!" Dean exclaims. "You're gonna eat that sandwich with no mayo?! No dressing at all?!"

Castiel takes a large bite of the sandwich.

"Jesus –" Dean grabs his head and drags his hands through his hair. "You have got to be fucking kidding me! A dry goddamn sandwich, in MY kitchen! MY KITCHEN!"

Castiel stares at him evenly and chews.

"You're a monster," Dean snarls.

Castiel swallows his bite. "Your cholesterol levels must be staggering."

Dean points a finger at him triumphantly. "HA! No one's checked my cholesterol in THREE YEARS!"

"Then you have a doctor's appointment tomorrow." Castiel takes another large bite of his sandwich.

"YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

"That reminds me…" Castiel reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black bracelet made of molded plastic. "I'd like you to wear this."

"No, no, no, no," Dean chuckles. "Not the ankle thing. I've already been through that rigamarole and I ain't doin' it again."

"It doesn't monitor your alcohol intake," Castiel tells him. "It's similar to one of those Fitbit bracelets. It goes on your wrist. Simple GPS and heartrate tracking."

"You know, I think this is a little early in our relationship to be exchanging jewelry," Dean retorts. "Bracelets are more of a six-month thing. A simple pendant might be more our speed."

Castiel looks him in the eye. "Your life will be a lot easier if you just wear this."

"How?" Dean demands. "HOW could my life possibly be better with you constantly being able to find me at any goddamn moment?"

Castiel sets the bracelet on the island, and picks up his sandwich. "Because otherwise," he says, "I will find you when you least expect it."

Dean picks up the bracelet, purses his lips, and considers it. "Well then. In the words of Pat Benatar…" He takes it in both hands, and snaps it in half. "Hit me with your best shot, motherfucker."

Without even a second glance, Castiel takes another bite of his sandwich and saunters out of the kitchen.

"That's right, muchacho," Dean growls to himself. "You take your fucking sandwich with you." Then he walks out to the hallway after Castiel.

The hallway is empty.

And then Dean remembers that his mansion has twenty bedrooms and approximately thirteen thousand places that Castiel could hide for an indefinite amount of time.

Shit.

"Louiiiiiiise?" Dean calls anxiously. "I'm gonna need a favor…"

…

**Six hours later**

The sun has just set, and the garden is bathed in floodlights. The mansion sits stately at the top of the hill, aglow and bustling, occupants scurrying like ants in their burrow. Dean waits pensively in his bedroom, standing near the French windows and watching the workers combing the estate below.

"They just finished sweeping the back nine," Miguel reports, a walkie talkie in his hand. His thick dark hair has gotten increasingly mussed throughout the evening, and there are shadows under his eyes. "Mr. Winchester, he's not here. They saw him drive out at the gatehouse, his car is gone…"

"Oh, he's here," Dean insists. "He's here somewhere. And stop calling me Mr. Winchester. Nobody calls me that. You've been here for like, what, a week now? Keep up."

"Yes, sir."

"Hmmm." Dean puffs up his chest. "Sir. I like 'sir.' Which is fuckin' weird, 'cause I hate Mr. Winchester. But 'sir'...'" He rubs his hands together and eyeballs Miguel. "Miguel – now, I don't want this to be _misconstrued_ –" he puts his hands up in front of him placatingly – "because I've gotten in trouble before, so I want you to hear this in a _non-sexual_ context, employer to employee, giving you job-related feedback." He claps his hands together and points his index fingers at Miguel. "Miguel, if you were a hooker I would pay you _good money _to keep calling me sir."

Miguel is staring at him with a baffled grimace. "In what – in what context is that non-sexual?"

Dean looks at him helplessly. "I don't know. I was hoping you'd come up with something?"

"Dean." Louise strides over, zeroing in like a hawk. "What are you telling Miguel?"

"Nothing!" Dean protests. "I was just telling him he's been doing a good job!"

Louise turns to Miguel, and raises an eyebrow. "You look uncomfortable."

"I'm… fine," Miguel says hesitantly.

Behind Louise, Dean gives him the OK hand signal and then a thumbs up.

"If he says anything _inappropriate_," Louise says in a low voice, "just let me know and I will handle it." Then she turns back to Dean and glares at him savagely.

"What?" Dean whines. "After all these years, you don't trust me?"

"All these years is exactly why I don't trust you," she says primly. "Security hasn't found anything and the camera footage shows Mr. Smith leaving the premises. It's time to call off this little escapade."

Dean's phone rings in his pocket, playing "Pour Some Sugar On Me," which means only one thing. "Alright, alright," he concedes, pulling out his phone. "Shut it down. And get out of my bedroom."

Louise herds Miguel away as Miguel starts making calls on his walkie.

Dean answers the phone. "What's up?"

"Heyyyyy, loser," says a woman's voice. "I know you're free tonight. You're _alllll_ways free."

Dean grins. "You sound drunk, Jo."

Jo snorts. "Like I'd call you sober. I got _that_ much self respect, at least."

Dean ignores the barb and walks toward his bar. "It's been awhile. Thought you were with that ketchup guy?"

"The Heinz family heir. We broke up," she sighs. "Tonight. Whish is why I'm drunk. Wanna fuck?"

"You have such a way with words," Dean muses. "You have truly mastered the art of seduction."

"Oh puh-lease, Dean. You'd screw a goat if I put a skirt on it."

"And such a _lady_, too. Where are you? I'll send a car down."

"Fifth and Madison. Tell 'em to drive fast, 'cause…." She stage-whispers into the phone, "_I'm really horny_."

Dean chuckles. "I'll tell 'em that."

He hangs up and pulls out a bottle of whiskey. He forgoes a shot glass and drinks straight from the bottle – he has to catch up, after all.

…

Forty-five minutes later, a knock sounds on the doorframe of the twelfth guest bedroom.

"Sir, your visitor is here."

Dean sits on a plush red velvet sofa with the lights dimmed in front of a crackling lit fireplace. He's changed into a pair of silk maroon pajamas and a black smoking jacket, holding a tumbler of scotch in his hand, because he's one classy son of a bitch. He stands and beckons Jo into room with a wide waving gesture. "Come in! Come in! Thanks Miguel, I can take it from here."

Miguel bobs his head and ducks out.

Jo is dressed in a glittering black evening gown, white satin opera gloves and all, her blond hair pinned up in a tasteful French twist. She tosses her black clutch purse on the sofa and looks around. "This isn't your room."

"My room is disgusting," Dean admits. "Care for a drink?"

"Scotch, neat," Jo sighs, collapsing onto the sofa. "Just one drink. I started sobering up on the way over. I probably shouldn't be here. I'm not going to stay."

Dean sets his glass on the end table, gets up and pours the scotch out of its decanter into a matching tumbler. "All dressed up and nowhere to go?"

"We were at the ballet." She slumps farther down into the sofa. "He proposed. So I dumped him. Makes sense, right?" She laughs bitterly. "Guy asks me to marry him, so I dump him, get drunk, and call up my scumbag ex." The orange light of the fire flickers across the features of her face, glinting off the shining in her eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Dean moseys back over with her scotch. "So you didn't love him?"

"Nope."

Dean looks at her face, and sets her glass down on the end table next to his.

He sits down close to her, reaches over and takes her gloved right wrist and holds it gingerly in his palm. Gazing at her hand closely as though concentrating on the task, he gently tugs at each fingertip of the glove. "Wouldn't want to get scotch on these," he murmurs.

Jo watches him intently; not his hands and what they're doing, but his face. He doesn't look up. His touch is warm through the satin.

He slides the hand under her wrist up to her elbow, and with the other pinches the middle fingertip and pulls the glove smoothly off of her arm. He lays the glove on her lap and seamlessly begins on the other hand.

"Why did you light the fireplace?" Jo asks. "It's summer."

Dean stays focused completely on the glove. "I've got AC," he answers absently. "The fire is nice." He lays the second glove over the other and folds them together. Then he gets down off the sofa and kneels, unbuckling her stiletto sandals and sliding them off her feet. He gives each foot a brief rub, massaging around the ball of the foot and working the inside of her arches. His hands are firm and practiced, the movement natural.

After he finishes, he looks up at her and smiles. "Better?"

Jo looks at him, eyes bright and large, and she reaches out and trails her fingers down the side of his face. "You can be so sweet," she whispers.

"Nah," Dean says conspiratorially, still smiling. "I'm still your scumbag ex, really. I'm just pretending."

Jo laughs. "Pretending to be sweet? Seems pretty real to me."

He gets up off his knees and sits on the edge of the sofa. "Pretending to be that guy," he says, a little wistfully. "The guy I wish I was. The guy you keep coming back to, again and again, because he makes you feel like…" He exhales, and slides a hand over her knee, not meeting her eyes. "Like you're the only person he's ever loved."

He finally looks up again, and their eyes lock.

…

"The zipper's stuck!" Dean exclaims.

"Just rip it!" Jo shouts. "Just rip this this thing OFF my body!"

"Let's pull it over your head!" Dean suggests. "There's a lot of dress here!" He throws the substantial skirt of the dress up and yanks it over her head.

Jo wriggles out of it and shoves it off the bed.

"Whoa," Dean breathes, "no bra!"

Jo rolls her eyes. "You've seen my tits!" She throws her arms around his naked shoulders and drags him down towards her, kissing him hungrily. Dean groans and bites her lip, sinking into her embrace and pushing her down into the mattress –

_I will find you when you least expect it._

Dean freezes.

"What?" Jo pants, putting her hand to his chest. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Dean answers. He kisses her harder and squeezes her thigh, and she rolls her body against him in that achingly familiar way. He hasn't slept with Jo in months – since she started dating the ketchup guy – and he's not going to let some psychopath ruin it. He lives for these lays, getting to feel just like old times, like when they would close the blinds in his office and fuck in his desk chair, sneaking around, forbidden. _Joke's on him_, he thinks, imagining Castiel lurking in the guest room closet, waiting for the right moment to spring out and startle them, peeking through the slats of the louvered doors. _I'm used to screwing with someone just around the corner_.

"C'mon, Dean," Jo moans, digging her fingernails into his back. "Get on with it and _fuck me_!"

And Dean imagines Castiel, that son of a bitch, standing in that closet, watching them writhing together, his dark hair mussed and his tie knot yanked loose and his fists clenched tight and a line of sweat gathering along his forehead, biting the inside of his cheek and hating himself because he can't help it, can't help being turned on, can't help getting hot and hard, watching them undulating naked in the firelight and hearing a beautiful blonde woman begging, just _begging_ Dean Winchester to fuck her senseless and knowing this closet door is _as close as he can get_.

Dean's entire body clenches tight, and his toes curl –

"Oh God," he gasps. "Just – hold still a minute." He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in and out and runs through baseball statistics in his head, memories of Sam puking on him that one time, anything to keep from coming.

Jo raises her eyebrows. "It's been awhile since _that's_ happened."

Dean takes a few more deep breaths and chuckles. "Sorry, I got ahead of myself." He pushes himself up, grabs her by the waist, and flips her over. "Hands and knees," he says. A strange adrenaline is tingling through him, a thrill he hasn't felt in years.

_You watching me? Then I'll give you a show_.

Jo eagerly obliges, pushing up against him and rolling her hips. "Grab my hair," she orders. "Grab my hair and pull it!"

Dean grins and threads his fingers through her hair, then tightens his grip. "It ain't my first time at this rodeo, sweetheart."

…

Miguel, Kelly, Jeff, and Tina all sit on the stools around the kitchen island, eating french fries and gossiping.

"Okay, so I have a stupid question. Is he…" Miguel glances around. "Is he straight?"

The others laugh. "He's Dean," Tina answers. "Why, did he make a pass at you earlier?"

"Not really," Miguel hedges. "I think it was a joke. But Louise acted like it was something… I should expect."

"Don't worry about it," Kelly assures him. "He doesn't hit on staff, not seriously. Like, he's not actually trying to get in your pants – he just has no filter. Louise just gets worried because, you know, lawsuits."

Jeff rolls his fry in his ketchup methodically, coating all the sides equally. "Dean is straight, but he's had sex with more women than most people ever meet in their lifetimes," he explains. "He gets bored. How variable can lady-parts really be, you know? You've had one, you've had them all. Sure, there are _some_ differences, but it's like… Potayto, potahto. Or I guess in Dean's case, vagina, vajeena." He tosses the fry into his mouth. "So sometimes he has sex with dudes."

"He once had a three-way with Meryl Streep and Mario Lopez," Tina blurts. "Breakfast that morning was _awesome_."

"Wow," Miguel says. "Has he ever, like, _dated_ a guy?"

Kelly sighs. "He barely dates _women_. Hasn't dated since Jo, pretty much."

"Jo?" Miguel glances toward the door again. "Jo Harvelle? You mean –"

"Yuuuup," Tina answers, shoving three fries in her mouth at once. "Before she was junior VP of marketing."

"They broke up when John died," Jeff says. "But every so often she rings him up. It's been awhile, though."

Kelly twists her hands together and shakes her head. "I was really hoping she'd had enough this time. She can do so much better."

Tina and Jeff murmur in agreement.

Miguel raises an eyebrow.

"Don't get me wrong," Kelly continues hastily. "I've worked for Dean for a long time, and I like him, and he is – deep down – a good person. It's just that he's also… in his romantic life, with women… he can be kind of a douchenozzle."

Miguel's eyebrows jump even higher.

"I give the girl props!" Tina cuts in, raising a fry as though in a toast. "There is nothing wrong with a strong, powerful female executive having a sexy boytoy on the side. I just want to be like, 'Honey, honey, this is what interns are for. This is why God created cabana boys.' Dean just comes with so much _baggage_."

"She's way out of his league," Jeff says. "Except for the money."

"But she's rich!" Kelly argues. "She doesn't _need_ his money!"

"You know who she should've hooked up with." Tina grabs another handful of fries. "_Sam_."

"But he's married," Miguel replies.

"I said _should've_," Tina retorts. "She should've climbed that redwood years ago, and now it's too late to complete the set. Now, if she taps that ass, it's all 'mistress this' and 'homewrecker that.'"

Jeff shakes his head. "Sam is all about image. He wanted a politician's wife, and he got her. Jo would never play nice for the sake of image. She's a ballbuster. She's a barracuda, and she's damn good at it. She can't have some guy trying to turn her into Jackie O."

"Maybe that's why she still sleeps with Dean," Tina muses. "He's such a mess, he'd never try to run her life. He can barely run his!"

The other three chuckle and nod, heartily agreeing. Then the chuckling dies down, and the words sink in.

They lapse into silence, not quite meeting each other's eyes.

…

…

Dean doesn't realize he's drifting off until Jo sits up, and he jerks awake.

"You don't have to go," he says, sliding a hand down her naked back.

She stands up off the bed and hunts for her panties. "Yes, I do," she replies. "I need to call Mark and apologize."

He doesn't lift his head and watch her. He just lies on his back and stares up at the dark ceiling of the guest bedroom, which is a strange shade of gray-gold in the dying firelight. "Mark?"

She continues rustling around. "Mark Heinz."

Oh.

Dean lets out a long breath and lets his body sink further into the down mattress. "You goin' back to him?"

Her voice is muffled as she slides the dress over her head. "No… not tonight, anyway. But I was shitty to him. I owe him an apology."

"Sure you don't wanna go another round?" Dean tries and fails to keep the drowsiness out of his voice. "I can do it. I am ready to go. I am one hundred percent ready."

She laughs lightly, and then crawls back onto the bed. She kisses him on the forehead, and strokes back his hair. "Wow, you were so much better at lying _before_ the sex."

He turns his head to look at her, slipping his hand up along her neck to cradle her face, and drinks in the way she looks in the near-darkness. Her dark eyes are bright and her cheeks are warm; her blond hair is tangled and loose, longer than he remembered, framing the curve of her narrow chin.

"You're beautiful," he says softly.

She smiles, and a dimple forms in the corner of her cheek. "Better. I almost bought that one." She gazes down at him with those big dark eyes. And he can see, in this moment, if he asks her to stay… she will.

He slides the slide of thumb along her cheek, just under her eye, and says, "Give Mark a kiss for me."

Her smile falters.

She pulls away from Dean and stands up off the bed. He listens to her walk over to the couch and put on her stiletto heels, and when she stands up again her footsteps click towards the doorway and pause there.

Dean stares up at the ceiling.

She says nothing, and then the doorknob squeaks, and the door thumps quietly closed behind her.

Dean closes his eyes, and tries to fall asleep.

For some reason, he can't. Even though he was drifting off just before she left, no matter how long he lies there his mind can't stop running, can't stop replaying the look on her face as the smile shrunk from her mouth and the hurt sunk into her eyes, and then he replays every time he's done that to her, so many times, so many little last words he's used to cut her like little shards of glass, just a drop of blood, just enough to see her bleed, and over and over and over and he thinks _What is wrong with me, what is wrong with me, why did I do that, why am I _like_ this_?

Finally he gets up.

Out of curiosity, he checks the closet. It's empty. No Castiel. He chuckles inwardly and closes the closet door.

He goes to the bathroom and flips on the light, squinting at the brightness. He turns on the faucet, bends down and uses his hand to scoop some water out, slurps from his hand. He straightens up and looks in the mirror –

"Hello."

Castiel stares back at him, just behind his shoulder.

"Jesus Christ!" Dean shouts, spinning around and flailing to grab a hand towel to cover his junk. "The fuck – the fuck - Where the fuck did you come from?"

Castiel stares at him evenly. "I told you I would find you when you least expected it."

"So _in the bathroom_?" Dean exclaims, trying to stretch the hand towel as far as it will go. "You're a sick freak! What if I had been shitting?!"

"It won't be in the bathroom next time," Castiel answers. "You would be expecting that, now."

Dean marches out of the bathroom and grabs his boxers from by the bed, yanking them on as fast as he can. "Sam is gonna hear about this!" he shouts. "I won't be _harassed_ in my own home by some cult member with a fetish! _How did you get in here?_"

Castiel steps out of the bright glow of the bathroom and into the dark bedroom. "All this could be avoided if you put on the tracker."

"No, I mean it!" Dean throws on his smoking jacket and angrily cinches the belt. "Were you in the closet this whole time? Enjoy the _peep show_, you voyeuristic son of a –"

Castiel frowns. "I wasn't in the closet."

Dean pulls his robe tighter and crosses his arms over his chest. "Don't try selling me that crap, buddy! I was awake this whole time and the door never opened. I have never felt so _violated_ in my _entire_ –"

"Dean." Castiel's frown deepens. "I wasn't in the closet. I came in here ten minutes ago through the servant corridors."

Dean cocks his head and squints. "The what?"

…

"Whoa," Dean breathes, staring down the long, narrow corridor walled with sheetrock and lit by bare fluorescent bulbs. "And there are secret entrances to every room?"

"Not every room. Just the bedrooms and the laundry room on this floor. Then there's a staircase at either end, and it connects to the downstairs corridors running to the dining room, study, kitchen, ballroom, foyer, parlor, menagerie, and conservatory, and then a stairway down to the cellar." Castiel is staring at him with bemusement. "How did you not know about this?"

"Hey, _I _didn't build this mansion," Dean retorts.

Castiel's eyes narrow with exasperation. "Yes, you did."

"Okay, yes, I _commissioned_ it," Dean admits. "But I didn't actually _build_ it myself. I hired guys to do that for me! And apparently they thought I needed _Victorian secret hallways_/" He peers down the hallway and whistles. "This explains a _lot_ about Louise."

Castiel leans his back against the wall and crosses his arms. He's still in his suit, although it's looking much more wrinkled and lived-in by this hour of the night. "You also need to update your security systems. I was able to get in through the back garden without being detected. I was apprehended when I entered the house, but a sniper wouldn't need to get that far to pose a threat."

"You were apprehended? I told those guys to kick your ass to Timbuktu when they found you!" Dean looks him up and down. "And yet your ass is here."

"I explained the situation to your security team." Castiel has that humored look gleaming in his eyes. "They agree that you should wear the tracker."

White-hot fury pulses behind Dean's eyes, throbbing in his hands. He glares at Castiel and exhales angrily, clenching and unclenching his fists.

Castiel simply gazes back.

Dean steps closer and pushes his finger into Castiel's chest. "If you were any other person," he seethes, "we would be having angry hate-sex right now, right up against this wall. And it would be _awesome_."

Castiel's eyes widen, and he stands up straighter.

"But I'm not going to give you the _satisfaction_," Dean continues through gritted teeth. "Even though that means that I don't get to have sex. _That_ is how much I hate you."

"I'm not going to have sex with you," Castiel says.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yes. That's what I just said."

"No. I'm saying…" Castiel looks into his eyes very seriously and speaks slowly, as though trying to communicate with a small child. "Dean. I am not going to have sex with you. Ever."

Dean stares back at Castiel, blinks, opens his mouth and then shuts it. "What? Why not?"

"There are a number of reasons." Castiel numbers off on his fingers. "First: I would never sleep with a client."

"I'm not your client, Sam is your client," Dean protests. "No one is suggesting you sleep with _Sam_."

"Second: I'm straight."

Dean makes a dismissive waving-away gesture. "So am I. Don't let labels get in the way of good sex, Cas."

"Third: I'm currently celibate."

Dean's jaw drops.

He blinks at Castiel.

"How… how…" He puts a hand to Castiel's arm. "Was there some sort of accident? Some horrible, dick-destroying accident? There are ways around that. You can totally still –"

Castiel bristles. "I'm celibate by choice."

Dean is flabbergasted. "But _why_? Why, for the love of God, WHY?"

"I have reasons." Castiel's face is a blank slate, a closed door. "You are not entitled to them." He brushes past Dean and walks out of the corridor and back into the guest bedroom.

After standing there blinking for a moment, Dean follows.

The bedroom is dark, and it takes Dean a moment for his eyes to adjust. Before he can see him, he feels Castiel press the tracking bracelet into his hand. "Just put it on," Castiel says. "I won't follow you everywhere. I promise I won't abuse it."

And strangely,

Dean believes him.

"Fine," he grumbles, squeezing his hand through the bracelet. "But if I do this, you have to get laid."

"No."

"Oh come on," Dean whines. "I can hook you up with somebody really nice. You like Julia Stiles? I can get you a date with Julia Stiles."

"No." Castiel turns away and walks to the door.

Dean follows him. "What about Kristin Chenoweth? She's tiny, but feisty."

"No."

"Keri Russell? She's going through a divorce right now. Veeerrry vulnerable."

"No."

"Kat Dennings?"

"No."

"Neve Campbell?"

"No."

"One of the Olsen twins? I can only get you one, not both."

"Absolutely not."

…


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _My terrific triffids! My marvelous marmosets! Thank you so much to everyone who commented and reviewed last chapter. Writing a big honking story can be daunting; you tap out 3,000 words and realize just how little of the story you've actually touched, and you __think, _Jesus, what am I doing? I should have written a one-shot about Dean and Cas getting accidentally cursed by a sex demon and called it a day. I should quit while I'm ahead!_But I know that I could never forgive myself if I left my readers hanging, and your thoughts and comments are what keep me charging onward. Thank you for all your inspiration and encouragement!_

_As a side note, I would actually love to write a story where Dean and Cas got cursed by a sex demon to have sex with each other, and they're both like, "Oh nooooo, there's no cure, now we have to have The Sex, gosh this is so gross and totally not sexy!1!" And then Sam picks up a book and is like, "Hey, guys, I found this super easy cure -" and Dean and Cas are like "OH NOOOOOO, THERE'S NO CURE AND WE HAVE TO HAVE SUPER GAY SEX RIGHT HERE ON THIS TABLE!" And Sam's like, "Guys. I literally just said -" "NOOOOOO, I DON'T WANT TO BLOW YOU BUT I GUESS I HAVE TO, THERE'S JUST NO WAY TO STOP IT!" "Please, not on the table -" "I HATE THIS SO MUCH, IF ONLY THERE WAS A CURE, TOO BAD THERE ISN'T SO I GUESS WE'LL JUST BANG FURIOUSLY FOR THE REST OF OUR LIVES!" "Okay. Fine. Whatever." _

_Anyway. _

_In this chapter, I reference business trusts. For those of you outside the U.S. and/or not real familiar with U.S. business law, competition law or anti-monopoly law in the U.S. is known as "antitrust law," because back around the turn of the century, businesses would use "trusts" to combine a bunch of different smaller corporations under one management without getting in trouble for being one giant official "corporation" monopolizing the market. Then we started enacting a bunch of anti-trust rules to crack down on this, namely the Sherman Act, which is still in effect today. Business trusts have pretty much fallen out of use, and now trusts are mostly used in wills and inheritance stuff. _

_But that's enough of that. On with the show, and thank you for reading! Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Five and a half years ago, ten stories below ground in Washington D.C. **

Castiel's eyes are glued to the security footage, watching the small figure swing a wooden chair by its leg and smash it into a wall.

Uriel walks behind his desk and peers over his shoulder. "That Winchester the younger?" he asks. "What fresh hell is he raising _now_?"

"He's spiraling," Castiel murmurs. "This is CCTV from a hotel room he destroyed yesterday in Barbados."

Uriel watches the figure on the screen snap off the chair leg and use it to demolish the plasma television screen. He whistles. "Stronger than he looks, I'll give him that."

Castiel rubs his chin, his eyebrows knotted together with worry.

The Chairman walks up to Castiel's desk and smiles. "Hey hey hey, how's our favorite foreign correspondent? It's great to have you back in the States, Cas!"

Castiel stands up and shakes his hand. "Thank you," he replies. "I'm glad you stopped by. I was just picking back up with my domestic cases, and I need to speak with you –"

The Chairman spots the footage playing on his computer. "Oh, you heard the news about D-Dub, did you?" He shakes his head regretfully. "Hard to watch. But you know what they say: everybody grieves differently. He'll work it out of his system eventually."

The figure on the screen lifts one side of the king-sized bed frame and unsuccessfully tries to flip it over.

Castiel's eyes dart from the screen to the Chairman. "With all due respect, sir," he says, "this isn't grief. This is… rage. It's been four months since John Winchester died, and Dean has only gotten worse. There is something deeper going on here, and without intervention –"

"Intervention?" The Chairman's eyebrows jump up. "Let's take this to my office, Cas. I have a lot to catch you up on."

Castiel pauses the security film, follows him to his office, and shuts the door behind him.

The Chairman rests on the edge of his desk, and folds his hands together. "We're moving Dean Winchester to Low Priority," he says.

Castiel stares at him disbelievingly. "Low Priority? How is that possible? Winchester Incorporated –"

"We still have Winchester Incorporated," the Chairman cuts in. "A lot has happened while you were away, Cas. There have been… developments. And a little bird on the inside has informed us that Dean isn't holding the reins anymore."

"Not right now," Castiel argues, "but when he returns –"

"He has nothing to return to." The Chairman stands up coolly and walks behind his desk. "After the stunts he's been pulling, he's lost any shot at CEO, at least for the next few years. And he's certainly jeopardized _our_ plans for him. But don't worry – we have Winchester Incorporated right where we want them, Castiel. For once we have a firm handle on the execs _and_ the board of directors. We are still in control."

Castiel steps forward, still distraught. "But Dean –"

"Is low priority." The Chairman sits down. "We're not dropping him, Cas, he's still on the chess board, but we _cannot_ proceed when he's in this state. If things were different, we might be forced to take action, but now that he's alienated himself from the company, we can afford to wait out his tantrums. Once he's cooled off a little, we'll pick up where we left off. If anything, the longer he drags this out, the more attractive we become. Beggars can't be choosers, and all that."

"He _needs help_," Castiel insists. "This isn't a spoiled trust fund child who didn't get his way. This is – this is truly uncharacteristic for Dean, and he's only getting worse. I find it incredibly disturbing. I'm afraid if we don't–"

The Chairman fixes him with an icy stare, the chill of it snapping taut between them. "His wellbeing is not your concern, Castiel. That is far outside your job description."

Castiel closes his mouth, and swallows.

"You have been away for quite awhile," the Chairman says softly. "Remember your place, and remember your duties."

Castiel nods. "Yes, sir."

The Chairman picks up some papers on his desk and begins to thumb through them. He slips on a pair of reading glasses. "Okay, that's all set then. Send the case file to the seventh floor and they'll reassign him."

Castiel stands up. "Yes, sir. Thank you." He exits the office.

When he returns to his desk, he clicks to resume playing the rest of the security footage. He has to finish it. He can't look away.

The small figure on the screen curls up in a ball in the corner of the hotel room and shakes. There is no sound on the security footage. There is only silence, and the grainy shape of a man's head buried in his knees, and the broken bits of wreckage all around him.

…

**Present day, in the middle of the night, right where we left off**

Dean follows Castiel to his bedroom. "Hey, what do you think you're doing?" he protests. "You can't just go into my room without permission!"

Castiel ignores him and goes inside, clapping the lights on.

Dean stomps after him. "Hey, asshole," he shouts, "one more step and I'll beat your ass to the g-"

Castiel slams the door behind him, shoves Dean up against the wall with an arm across his collarbone, and clamps a hand over Dean's mouth. "Stop threatening me," he growls under his breath, "and I will let you speak."

Dean glowers at him.

Castiel waits.

Dean glances down at the hand over his mouth, and glances back up at Castiel.

Castiel slowly removes his hand.

"You're the _worst_, you know that?" Dean says. "You're just a walking, talking punch in the nads."

Castiel rolls his eyes slightly and backs away. "Turn on the stereo."

Dean blinks. "Why?"

Castiel glares. "Turn on the stereo."

With a huff, Dean walks over to the dining table (currently covered in a swath of porn magazines) and grabs his iPod, which is wirelessly connected to the stereo system. "Hope you like Zep," he remarks, switching on the last song he listened to – "Dazed and Confused."

"Put it on loop, and turn up the volume," Castiel orders.

Dean clicks the repeat button and cranks it up.

"Louder."

Dean turns it up until Robert Plant is wailing in his eardrums and Jimmy Page's guitar is humming through his bones.

Castiel turns to walk to the master bathroom and motions for Dean to follow.

Dean follows him into the spacious bathroom. "Dude, what the _fuck _are you on?" he shouts over the music.

Castiel shuts the door behind Dean and quickly scans the bathroom. He opens each of the cupboards and looks inside, checks under the sink, glances through the liquor cabinet and the mini-fridge, rifles through the towel closet. He is fast and methodical, as though he's gone through this room a hundred times before.

The music still bleeds through the bathroom door, but at least now Dean can hear. Castiel finally finishes his search and turns back to Dean. "It would take too long to clear your bedroom," he explains. "Especially since you refuse to let it be cleaned."

"Clear my bedroom of what?" Dean asks.

Castiel sits down on the edge of the enormous Jacuzzi bathtub and loosens his tie. "Bugs. You don't know who could be listening."

Dean lets out a sarcastic laugh. "Listening to _what?_ Me watching porn?"

"Dean." Castiel looks at him seriously. "I'm going to explain to you who I work for."

Dean sits down on the toilet lid. "Thank Christ. Finally!"

Castiel rests his elbows on his knees and clasps his hands together. "I work for a group of people, influential people, powerful people, who have significant business interests and significant amounts of money poured into those interests."

Dean eyes him skeptically. "Okaaay."

He looks down at his hands as he talks, but he speaks candidly. "They work for and own some of the biggest corporations in the world; they believe our nation's future and the global economy hinge on the success and survival of these corporations. These individuals realized that if they coordinated their resources together they could shape the world's political landscape in their favor." Castiel looks him in the eyes. "For our purposes, you can call this group of people the Trust."

"The Trust?" Dean asks. "As in a business trust? As in _anti_-trust?"

"Yes," Castiel answers. "As you've guessed, the nature of this organization would draw serious criticism if known to the public, and be attacked as an anti-competitive alliance. I can assure you that it has nothing to do with monopolizing the marketplace."

"Oh, really?" Dean demands. "Like an assurance from _you_ means anything. Jesus, I need a drink." He gets up and retrieves a fifth of vodka from the mini-fridge.

Castiel gives him a sharp glance. "Your father was no stranger to accusations of monopoly."

"That's because my _father_ was an insatiable business mogul who flouted the Sherman Act on a daily basis," Dean retorts. He unscrews the cap of the vodka bottle and takes a burning gulp. "He pushed boundaries. That was no secret. He did it right in the open. Your little Trust thing is a whole different animal." He takes another few swallows that slice hot down his throat, exhales with a groan, and sets the vodka bottle on the marble countertop of the sink. "What do they want from me? Money?"

Castiel lowers his chin, gazing at the white bath rug under his feet. He briefly purses his lips. "They want you to run for governor."

Dean's entire body goes numb.

He stares.

He blinks.

He does a double take.

"_The_ governor?" he asks. "As in, the person who runs the entire state?"

"Yes." Castiel answers. His right thumb rubs back and forth over the knuckles of his left hand.

"But you don't – _you_ don't expect me to do it, right?" Dean says, still numb. "You can't want _me_ to run for governor!"

"No. I don't want you to run." Castiel looks up at Dean, his voice hard and his eyes steely, and he clenches his hands tight. "I want you to _win_."

Dean puts his hands behind his head and turns away from Castiel. "Jesus fucking Christ. My brother hired a lunatic!"

Castiel stands. "Not this election cycle. Years from now. The next election, or potentially the one after that, depending on how long it takes to rehabilitate your image –"

"Rehabilitate my – rehabilitate my –" Dean spins back around and laughs bitterly. "I don't have an _image_ problem, Cas! I have a DUI on my criminal record, a liquor cabinet in my bathroom and ménage a _twelve_ every other week. I _am_ the problem!" He grabs his bottle of vodka and scowls at Castiel. "And that's not even touching the fact that I've never held an office, I'm not interested in politics _at all_, and my brother literally hired me a_ babysitter_ because apparently, I can't be trusted to so much as jerk off without _adult_ _supervision_!"

Castiel gazes at him. "I don't plan on supervising you for that."

"Yeah. Well!" Dean lifts the vodka bottle and takes a long pull off it, and then glares at Castiel. The alcohol is starting to hit him, tingling in his fingers and buzzing in his forehead. "Good luck with that, because I jerk off _everywhere_. When you least expect it. One day you're gonna see some shit you can't unsee."

"Strategic masturbation," Castiel remarks. "An elegant weapon, for a more civilized age."

Dean angrily brandishes the bottle at him, vodka sloshing out and spattering the floor. "Don't you quote Star Wars at me!" he shouts. "You have not earned that right!"

Castiel tucks his hands in his pockets and walks to the door.

"And another thing!" Dean yells. "How do I know this 'Trust' is even real? It's probably just a figment of your imagination, you – you _fruit_ _loop_!"

Castiel stops and looks over his shoulder. "It's real. And 'fruit loop' is not an insult. It's a cereal."

"Oh, we'll see about that, Mini-Wheat," Dean snaps. He chugs more vodka and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Prove it. Prove it's real. Let me meet one of these _influential people_."

Castiel turns back to him with a regretful twist to his mouth. "I can't disclose the members of the Trust."

"Of _course_ you can't. Because they don't exist."

"However…" He pulls his phone out of his pocket and swipes it on. "As a gesture of good faith, the Trust has authorized me to transfer sixty million dollars to one of your offshore bank accounts."

"How…" Dean squints at him. "How do you know about my offshore bank accounts?"

Castiel just looks at him. "I know everything."

"Not everything," Dean scoffs.

"Everything," Castiel affirms.

Dean clenches the vodka bottle tight. "Oh yeah? Then what I am I thinking right now?" _Suck my dick, you corporate communist fascist insane lunatic bastard._

Castiel puts two fingers to his temple and narrows his eyes at Dean, as though reading his mind. "You're thinking that I'm mentally ill and ordering me to perform a sex act."

Dean points at Castiel.

He opens his mouth, and closes it.

Castiel slips his phone back into his pocket. "I know everything," he says. "The money is transferred, and you should go to bed. I'm sure your accountant will contact you in the morning."

"How did you do that?" Dean asks. "How'd you read my mind like that?"

"I didn't," Castiel answers simply.

"I know you didn't _actually_ read my mind," Dean retorts. His fingers are clammy and damp around the chilled vodka bottle, the condensation clinging to his skin like a cold sweat. "But you read me. You read my face. You did it like – like Sammy would've done. Like you _know_ me."

Something in Castiel's expression changes, something like being caught in the act, on the defensive, trapped. He takes a quick breath before he speaks. "The Trust began observing you long before your brother began looking for a handler," he admits. "I was… prepared to take this job, some time ago. I've studied you."

"How long?" Dean asks.

Castiel hesitates. "Years."

The alcohol soaks through Dean's body and slowly tilts the world around him, swirling gently like a stirring spoon in the cocktail glass. "Then why now?" he asks, and he's not even sure why he's asking, or why his chest hurts, or why his voice sounds so strained. "Why did you wait so long? Why did you let me…" He trails off, and tries the sentence again, grasping at the words. "For _years_. Why did you let me…" The words catch tight in his throat.

Castiel swallows, and he gazes at Dean honestly. "I was assigned elsewhere," he says. "My superiors felt – I was instructed to wait."

Dean looks at him numbly, abstractly, almost above himself, and sees what he is looking at: this person, this stranger who for years watched him trying to dig his way out of a hole, digging himself deeper and deeper and deeper, and who now demands he climb himself out, tells him he's wrong for digging, tells him he should be ashamed.

The man who watched him dig, and did nothing.

The numbness and coldness burns away into stinging pins and needles. He raises the vodka bottle to his lips and tilts it upward, relishing the bite of the liquor in his mouth, the hot scouring in his gut, every gulp an ounce closer to being totally divorced from time and memory.

When he finally lowers the bottle, he looks Castiel in the eye. "You're too late," he says. "You lose. Go shove it up your ass."

He shoves past Castiel and into his bedroom, where the music is still blaring loud and desolate. He climbs into his bed and lies flat on the comforter, the half-empty bottle tucked snugly under his arm like a teddy bear, and he closes his eyes and waits for Castiel to leave.

He falls asleep before he hears the door click shut.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: _Hello, dear readers! Thank you to everyone who read the last chapter and commented - I really love getting feedback, and I appreciate you all. I'll keep this brief, but I just wanted to mention that this chapter contains a drink called an "AMF." For those who don't know, AMF stand for "Adios, Mother Fucker" because it's mostly liquor and once you drink it, you can kiss your ass goodbye. It's typically a radioactive shade of blue and it tastes very sweet. Your reward for commenting on this chapter is a piece of discount Easter candy from my stash in my bedroom. _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Eight years ago**

The bar is crowded and dingy, a downtown dive with football playing on a single TV screen, and the whole place is pervaded by the smell of hops and hamburger meat. The hardwood floor is slightly sticky. Sam has never understood Dean's attraction to dive bars, some sort of longing to be an earthy bluegrass biker with faded tattoos and scars on his arms – in short, someone totally unlike himself. But Sam is okay with this bar. The beer is cheap, and Dean likes it here. That's enough.

Dean has just taken three shots of tequila at the bar to celebrate their successful acquisition, and he comes back to Sam's table with two glasses of whiskey raised triumphantly. "To the victor go the spoils," he declares, sliding Sam a glass. He's in jeans (mandatory at this place) but he hasn't quite surrendered the pressed dark blue button-up shirt he wore during the meeting – it hangs loose and untucked, at least. But underneath at the neck Sam can glimpse a black t-shirt with a _logo_ on it.

"What are you wearing underneath?" Sam asks. "Is that…"

Dean unbuttons his shirt down to his waist and shows off the t-shirt's logo proudly. His cheeks are liquor-pink, and his eyes gleam brightly. "Metallica," he says, grinning. "Dad was sitting right there, and I was wearing it the _whole time_."

Sam crows with laughter and raises his whiskey. "To the victors!"

They both throw back their whiskey and swallow it in one gulp.

"That makes four shots I've drank. Four shots in, and I could _still_ beat you at darts," Dean taunts.

"For the last time, Dean, I _let_ you win," Sam argues. "It was your birthday!"

Dean snorts. "Oh, I see, you just _let_ my darts fly right into the bullseye? Wow, thanks Sam, so glad you didn't stop them with your magical mind powers."

"You want a rematch?" Sam challenges. "Right here, right now, let's go!"

"Oh, no no no no!" Dean throws up his hands and shakes his head. "I'm four shots deep. You wanna dance this tango, you gotta _get on my level_, Sammy boy!"

Four shots, two beers, and three games later, Sam finally admits defeat.

"Bartender!" Dean shouts, collapsing onto a barstool. "Please prepare your sweetest, girliest AMF for my _loser brother_, and a gin martini for me!"

"No, no, not an AMF," Sam groans, and he plunks down on the stool next to Dean.

"Winner picks the drinks, loser shuts his cakehole!" Dean insists. "I'm gettin' you college girl drunk!"

"_Jerk_," Sam retorts.

"Bitch," Dean shoots back.

The bartender brings them their drinks, and Sam eyes the neon blue concoction in his glass.

Dean grins and salutes Sam sardonically. "Adios, motherfucker!"

Sam takes a gulp and groans again. "Jesus, I can _taste_ the blue."

Dean laughs gleefully and takes a long slurp off his martini. After a moment of silence, he looks down at his glass, and sighs contentedly. "We did a good job today," he says. "This has been a really great year. Just… a really fuckin' good year."

"It really has," Sam admits, swirling the straw in his drink. "I'm gonna miss all this."

Dean looks at him.

"What do you mean?" Dean asks. "What do you mean, you're gonna miss it?"

"I'm going back to Asia, Dean," Sam says. "To work with the foundation. We've talked about this."

Dean relaxes a little. "Oh. That."

Sam swallows and forces himself to add the part that he's purposefully neglected to mention to Dean for some time. "I'll be flying out in a week or so."

Dean's back stiffens, and he sits up straight, blinking. "What?"

"Well, Dad's finally coming back to work full-time," Sam explains. "So this is the best time to-"

"You know that's just temporary!" Dean interrupts. "You can't leave right now, Sam! Dad's only coming back so he can wrap everything up with a nice shiny bow before he leaves! He needs us t-"

"Dad doesn't _need_ us," Sam snaps. "God, do you even hear yourself? He's got you so brainwashed, you actually believe his guilt-tripping bullshit. Dad has millions of employees, more money than Disney, and a brilliant executive board that could run this company in their sleep! He doesn't _need_ us to do anything!"

"Maybe he doesn't!" Dean snarls. "Maybe he just _wants us _to be involved in his life! Maybe he, shocker, _wants_ his sons to inherit the empire he fucking built from scratch, Sam!"

"You can't even hear it," Sam whispers, staring at Dean. "You just said it. You said it exactly. Dad wants us to be involved in _his_ life, Dean. He doesn't want to be involved in ours."

And Dean stares back at him, his eyes red and glistening and his nostrils flared, and he clenches his jaw tight, and his lip trembles as he sucks in a breath through his teeth.

Sam looks back down into his glass. "I don't want to run the company, Dean. I explained that to Dad. He's been different, since I came back, and for once, I think he gets it."

Dean's hand, resting on the bar, curls tight into a ball.

"Then why don't you explain it to _me_?" Dean asks hoarsely.

"Oh, come on, Dean, you know how I feel about this!" Sam replies. "I've told you a million times that I was going back to Asia the first chance I got!"

"I thought that was just talk!" Dean argues. "Like, one day I'm gonna learn the drums! One day I'm gonna go back to Asia! It's been a year, Sam, I thought you – I thought you were coming around. I thought you liked working with me!"

"I did!" Sam retorts. "I liked this past year, Dean, I had a good time, but that doesn't mean I want to do this for the rest of my _life_! I don't get it. Why are you even trying to argue with me on this? I told you, Dad's _fine_ with me goi-"

"_I'm_ not fine," Dean blurts.

Sam blinks.

"Sam, I know we don't…" Dean gazes at him pleadingly, his face flushed red. "We don't talk… about this stuff… But I missed you, when you were gone. And when you came back, and Dad was off work, and we were all together for once, for once in our lives, a _family_ again."

Sam's throat clenches tight.

"I don't care if you work for the company," Dean continues, pain scraping through the cracks in his voice. "I get it, you wanna go your own way, I understand. But please, Sammy." Anguish shines in his eyes. "Don't go."

Sam looks at Dean, his big brother begging him to stay, and his chest hurts, and he can't breathe, and before he can think he exhales, "Okay."

Dean's eyes shine even brighter.

"I won't work for Dad anymore," Sam says, "but I'll stay."

Dean stands up, grabs Sam by the shoulders, and pulls him into a tight hug.

Almost by instinct, Sam squeezes back tightly, and it feels so warm and right and painfully good that he realizes in that moment just how much he was dreading leaving Dean.

Then Dean releases him, and claps him on the shoulder. "I'm real drunk," he tells Sam. "So let's hope I block that part out in the morning."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Dean, that's a healthy attitude."

"Bartender!" Dean shouts. "Another AMF! And extra blue curacao!"

…

…

**Present day, 9:42 am **

Sam sits at his desk, the Winchester Incorporated CEO Zach Rutger sitting across from him. Every paper on Sam's desk is neatly stacked, and his computer screen is tilted to a perfect 35 degree angle. Sam tosses the model smartphone down on the desk. "Look, the point is, it's shit."

"It's not shit!" Rutger protests. He picks up the phone and swipes across the screen. "It's just shit-_yyy _right now. It just needs some tweaking. That's why the boys in development want you to come over to the office and give it a look-see."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Just the boys?"

"It's a turn of phrase," Rutger snaps.

"You better turn it right back around then, before HR hears you." Sam goes back to his computer and starts scrolling through his latest campaign speech. "It's useless, Zach. You don't need to break into the phone OS market. You're too far behind at this point, and you're better off just developing apps."

Rutger sits back and straightens his tie. "Well, pardon me if I don't share your pessimistic view of the market. Business is about taking risks, Sam! Risk and reward, risk and reward!"

Sam is about to reply with a cutting remark when his desk phone buzzes with an incoming call from his assistant.

He pushes the button to answer on speakerphone. "What's up?"

"I've got your brother on the other line," his assistant replies. "I told him you were in a meeting, but he's very insistent that he get to talk to you, and… he sounds intoxicated. He says you're not answering your cell."

Rutger is just watching Sam with a raised eyebrow.

Sam sighs and picks up the phone receiver, shutting off speakerphone. "Yeah, that was on purpose. Just… put him through."

After a moment, the line clicks. Sam takes a deep breath. "What is it, Dean?"

"Sammyyyy!" Dean calls through the line, his voice heavily slurred. "Thank God! Sam, Cashtiel iz workin' for a big conspiracy thing, he tol' me alllll about it, I swear Sam, I'm not even shitting you."

There's a sinking sensation in the pit of Sam's stomach. "You're drunk," he says tersely. "Leave me alone, Dean. I have work to do."

Rutger inspects his fingernails.

"No, no no no, lizzen lizzen lizzen." Dean takes a deep breath, and speaks very slowly and carefully, each word enunciated a little too clearly. "Castiel Smith. Is working. For. A secret orga_nnn_ization. And they. Have been watching. Me. They want me to run. For governor."

"Why?" Sam asks. "Why not me?"

Dean is silent.

"Okay," Sam says. "I'm hanging up now. Don't call me again."

"No, Sammy, please, don't go –"

Sam hangs up.

Rutger crosses his legs and sits back in his chair, smirking. "Drunk at 9:45 in the morning? Your brother sure knows how to start the day right."

"He's an alcoholic," Sam mutters darkly. "It's not funny."

Rutger coughs. "No, of course not, my apologies, I didn't mean to make light of it."

Sam stands up and walks to his office door. "Thanks for coming in, Zach," he says. "I'll stop by sometime in the next week and look at your shitty phone."

Rutger smiles insincerely and gets up. "Thanks, Sam. Appreciate it." He shakes Sam's hand firmly and leaves.

….

**10:02 am **

Dean staggers through his mansion in his boxers and a bathrobe, a bottle of gin in his hand. The black tracking bracelet is still clasped around his wrist. He stops and squints at a framed pencil sketch by Picasso. "Don't remember buying that," he mumbles.

Miguel approaches him tentatively. "Sir," he says.

Dean spins around, his bathrobe twirling and his gin sloshing. "Miguel!" he cries out eagerly. "What have you got for me, my main man?" His voice is over-bright and unsteady, the effort of forced lightness straining through. His eyes are unusually puffy and bloodshot, and he's graduated from five-o'clock-shadow to uneven stubble.

"I brought you a Bloody Mary." Miguel offers him the tall glass, a celery stalk poking out the top. "Louise thought you'd want one."

Dean grabs the glass and takes a deep drink. Then he smacks his lips and narrows his eyes at Miguel. "There vodka in this?"

"No," Miguel admits. "But she said you'd still want it."

Dean glares and takes another drink of the cocktail, then dumps a liberal amount of gin into the glass. "It's not a Bloody Mary, then, it's a Virgin Mary. Get your fucking act together, Miguel."

"Of course, sir," Miguel sighs.

"Miguel, I'm gonna throw a party tonight," Dean announces. "I want you to get all the staff together, and tell 'em to whip up enough food for a few hundred people. Get a DJ, a few bands, some of those fuckin' ribbon acrobats, the works. Then I want you call every goddamn number in my phone book, and invite 'em all over." He grins widely, a wild gleam in his eyes. "It's gonna be a real blow-out bash."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: _Dear readers, I am so so sorry for this late update! I had a mock trial competition this weekend and time got away with me. You'll be pleased to learn that I _did_ neglect some homework to bring you this chapter, because I'm in my last year of law school and I DON'T CARE, I LOVE IT! *dances enthusiastically to Icona Pop* _

_Thank you so much to everyone who commented and reviewed last chapter. Your prizes are in the mail. This week, if you review you will get a prize of… hmm…. What have I got… *rummages through drawers* Okay, okay. I've got a few spare Demon Deans®, a Hard Times Castiel® (complete with original beard stubble), and a Season One edition of Gangly Sammy® (comes with free extra gangles). Comment now, and get them while supplies last!_

_P.S. I try to respond to most of the reviews I get, especially ones that ask questions, but if you're not logged in to , I can't reply to you. These chapters are being simultaneously published on AO3, so if that makes it easier for you to log in and comment, feel free to hop on over there! I love being able to reply and talk to y'all because you guys are insightful motherfuckers and have great thoughts on these characters. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

The mansion is flooded with busy attendants, hastily trying to throw together a party. They swarm through the halls and burst through the doors like a human river, swirling and eddying around each table and light fixture. Clattering and chattering echoes off the marble, and Dean is in the thick of it, shouting out orders as he strides through each room while Louise doggedly follows him and takes notes. "I want another DJ in this room!" he hollers above the din. "But no real music! This room will be all Euro-electro-house dance music shit! I want people to think they stepped into a goddamn German rave! I want black lights, strobe lights, open bar on either end!"

Then the sea of staff in front of him suddenly parts, and Castiel is standing there.

Dean stops short.

Castiel's wearing a stupid black suit again, but a different one – one more tightly fitted, with no tie and the first button on his collar undone. Dean suspects this is his "casual" look. It's strange how just the sight of him gets Dean's heart racing, shoulders tightening, adrenaline thrumming, how his body readies for a fight even though his brain is focused on giving Castiel a look of nonchalant disgust.

"What is all this?" Castiel asks, glancing askance at the hurried bustling around him.

Dean smirks. "I'm throwin' a party. You're not invited."

Castiel frowns. "What are you celebrating?"

Dean shrugs. "Life, I guess. L'chaim!"

Castiel's frown turns into consternation. "Your Hebrew is terrible."

"Look, I don't need to have an excuse to have a party," Dean retorts. "I'm a billionaire. Every day is a party. The world is my hotel room and I can afford to lose the security deposit, so move out of my way and let me get on with the magical, whimsical, _charmed and carefree_ life I so cherish."

Castiel steps forward, and Dean can see his shoulders tense up too. Good. He's feeling it. Dean is getting to him, one snark at a time. "If I see any drugs in this house tonight, I will – "

"You'll what?" Dean interrupts. "You'll call the police? Wow, that is a pickle." Then he pauses, letting his mouth form a small O as though he's just remembered something. "Wait, didn't my brother hire you to keep his good name _out_ of the headlines?" He looks thoughtfully toward the ceiling. "_Midnight Drug Bust at Winchester Mansion, Hundreds Arrested._ That has kind of front page ring to it, in my opinion. And if he fired you…" Dean raises his eyebrows and blows a regretful sigh through mostly closed lips. "Then _I_ could kick your ass to the curb. And that's KO for your little Trust thing, amiright?"

Castiel glowers at him, but says nothing.

Dean claps Castiel on the shoulder and says, "Good luck with that."

Then he pushes past him and walks toward the next room, barking orders at Louise. "In the conservatory, I want buckets full of ice and water bottles! People need to stay hydrated, Louise!"

Louise scurries after him, and Dean smirks to himself as he feels Castiel's eyes following him out of the room.

….

**Eight hours later**

"This is a great party, Dean," the willowy blonde tells him, her hand lighting gently on his arm. "The themed rooms are perfect."

They're standing in the library, which Dean has designated as part of the Classy Zone, styled after a cocktail reception. Waiters offer tiny squares of specialty meats and fine cheeses, and two open bars serve wine and mixed drinks. Light, quiet jazz music filters through the room, and the guests who have chosen this particular venue are all sparkles and smiles, soft laughter and warm looks.

"Thank you," Dean answers with a smile. "I like to have a little something for everyone."

Before coming up to make nice in the library, he threw on a navy blazer over his t-shirt and blue jeans. He figured the expensive watch on his wrist would push the ensemble over the edge from "can't dress" to "too rich to give a fuck." He wouldn't – _would_ _not_ – put on a suit, but there was a time that Dean could make Bahama shorts look formal, just by standing straight and letting his shoulders do the talking.

Now, he realizes he doesn't fit in with this crowd, and it has nothing to do with his clothes.

The willowy blonde leans in and peers past him, lowering her voice. "Don't look now, but there's a guy over in the corner glaring at you."

Castiel watches, eagle-eyed and glowering from his post across the room.

"Oh, I know." Dean smiles wistfully at her, letting his gaze rest on her lips just long enough for her to notice. "You wanna know why?"

She smiles back expectantly, sensing a punchline. "Why?"

Dean puts his hand to her elbow and leans in close, close enough that he catches the scent of the light floral perfume on her neck, and murmurs in her ear, "It's because I'm talking to you."

She laughs. "What are you talking about? I don't know him! Why would he care that we're talking?"

He leans back a bit, hand still on her elbow, and looks her in the eyes. "You're the most beautiful woman in the room," he says, sincerely. "And I'm the one who has your attention. Why shouldn't he be jealous?"

She stares into his eyes, and a pink flush rises on her cheeks.

Dean ducks his head and chuckles ruefully. "God, that sounds like such a line. I'm sorry, I…."

"No," she says, staring at him, an urgency in her voice, "no, it _is_ a line, and I get them all the time, and from any other person, I'd –" She struggles with the words, still staring at him. "When _you _said it –"

"I meant it," Dean answers honestly. "I think you are the most beautiful woman in this room. Do I have ulterior motives in telling you? Of course. I'm no gentleman. I'm everything you've heard about me; I'm after exactly what you think I'm after. But it's not a line. It's me, putting my cards on the table. So I guess the question is…" He curves up one corner of his mouth, daring her with his eyes. "You gonna call, or fold?"

Her cheeks flush pinker.

….

The blonde shoves him up against the door of the second guest bedroom and kisses him hungrily. Dean fumbles behind himself and manages to twist the door knob, and the two of them swing forcefully inward.

They continue their way into the room, lip-locked and clinging to each other, and the blonde starts to push the blazer back from Dean's shoulders.

Dean breaks away from her, sucking in a ragged lungful of air, and says, "Hang on a sec." He walks back to the doorway and pushes the doors fully closed. He pauses a moment, and takes a deep breath.

The tricky part went off without a hitch, but now the clock is officially ticking.

He turns back to the blonde whose name he can't quite remember and says, "I am so, so sorry, but I have to go. If you stay in this bedroom by yourself for half an hour, I will give you two thousand dollars."

She stares at him in confusion, her hair mussed and her lipstick smudged. "What?"

He pulls out his iPod and turns on the stereo, and Marvin Gaye begins to play in surround sound. "I don't have time to explain. Again, I am really sorry, and if this were any other time…" He looks her up and down and groans remorsefully. "Oh, if this were _any_ other time, I would not be leaving." He then pulls out his wallet and counts out a few bills. "Look, here's one grand. That's just apology money. If you stay in this room for just _thirty minutes_, I will give you two more when I get back."

"What the hell is going on?!" the blonde demands.

"Shh, shh shh – okay, three more!" Dean offers. He holds out the money, and when she doesn't take it, sets it on the night stand. He strides to the left corner of the room and presses gently on the wall until the hidden panel opens with a soft click.

The blonde makes a squeaking noise. "What the _what?!"_

"Servant corridors," Dean explains. "Sorry, sorry, I have to go!" And he disappears into the narrow hallway, pulling the wall shut behind him.

….

Castiel wanders the hallway outside the guest bedroom. The muffled refrains of "Let's Get It On" emanate from the doorway.

This could be awhile.

Castiel sighs and tucks his hands into his pockets.

….

Downstairs, in the Euro club music area Dean has designated the "Haus Party," Dean makes his way through the throngs of thrashing sweaty dancers as the bass beats rattle in his molars and the flashing colored lights ache in his eyes. Finally he spots the man he's looking for, flattened up against the wall with a folder in his hand.

"Jerry!" Dean greets him, shouting over the music. He steps in close and shakes his hand. "You enjoying the party?"

Jerry eyes him and shouts back, "Your friends are crazy, man! Somebody came up and asked me if I wanted some 'bone saw.' I don't even want to _know_ what a drug called _bone saw_ does to you!"

Dean laughs and claps him on the shoulder. "What have you got for me on Castiel Smith?"

Jerry leans in close to Dean's ear and flips open the folder. "Your man Smith is a ghost. At first glance he checks out – his ID, social security, credit history all look legit, really clean job there – but it has the earmarks of a shell identity. It's too neat, too sparse, a planned model of the perfect record. It's eerie. His tax returns have him making six digits in contract work for the last fifteen years, but the biggest purchase he's ever made was a used car, which he paid off in installments… I'd say that was just to bolster his credit. This is a scary dude, Dean. Like, CIA scary. I had Tara try and connect him with any aliases. She started running some facial recognition software and turned up a few partial matches in Eastern Europe, North Africa, South Asia… but no names attached yet, and no full matches."

Dean rubs his chin. "He told me he works for some organization called the 'Trust.' Said it's a who's-who of corporate bigwigs. You think you can get anything from that?"

"I can try," Jerry hedges. "I'm running his profile with some intelligence agencies, and I can add the Trust to the list. I can put out some feelers with guys I know in corporate espionage. But this guy is a pro, and he's been at it for years. I doubt he's told you anything that can connect him to an important client."

Dean nods. "He's worried someone else has bugged this place, which means he's bugging it too. I tested the waters this morning and called Sam, spilled the whole thing, didn't get a reaction from Castiel, so – either he's not bugging my phone, or he hasn't told me enough to hurt him."

"He's definitely bugging your phone," Jerry says. "Email, too, obviously. That's why I'm here!" Then he glances at Dean sidelong. "What'd Sam say?"

Dean shrugs. "Don't remember. I was really fucking drunk."

Jerry laughs and shuts his folder. "Classic! If he calls you up with any questions, send him my way."

"The only question Sam has these days is whether he polls better in a red tie or a blue one," Dean remarks. "But honestly, Jerry… do you think I can get one up on this guy?"

Jerry shakes his head. "You're in some real deep shit here, man. Even if we get dirt on him, I think he's got the juice to make it disappear. You can throw up roadblocks, but I don't think you can shake him like the others."

The pit of Dean's stomach sinks low into his gut. He has to follow through with the plan. There's no other way.

"Okay," he says. "Okay."

"You still want me to give him the standard package?" Jerry asks. "It'll at least fucking _ruin_ his day."

"Definitely," Dean agrees. "Give him the works. I gotta get moving, though – I'm on a tight schedule here. Thanks, Jer!"

"No problem!"

…..

Castiel leans against the wall outside the bedroom, arms crossed, and drops his head back against the wall with a soft thunk.

He sighs.

….

Dean finds Miguel in the pool and billiards room, which is being used to host several games of blackjack and poker, with a whiskey bar and cigars being distributed liberally. Miguel looks bored and uncomfortable in his uniform for the evening, a white long-sleeved shirt with a black vest and bowtie, and he stands stiffly off to the side of the bar.

Dean sneaks up on him from behind, and then claps him on the shoulder. "Mickey!" he greets him. "Why the long face?"

"Oh, h-hello, sir!" Miguel snaps to attention and spins around, a light blush creeping up the sides of his face. "I didn't see you come in!"

Dean touches his nose. "Servant corridors. Apparently, I have them."

"Would you like something to drink?" Miguel asks. "Or something from the kitchen?"

"No thanks," Dean answers. "Miguel, what kind of girls are you into?"

Miguel stares at him. "What kind… of girls?"

"You know…" Dean makes a circular "et cetera" gesture with his hand. "Tall, short, blonde, brunette, skinny, curvy. What kind do you like? I wanna set you up."

Miguel keeps staring. "I don't think that's… appropriate –"

"C'maaahhn," Dean goads. "Everybody's got a type! You want Selma Blair, I can get you a date with Selma Blair. You want Lupita Nyong'o – well, I'll have to call in some favors, but I can get you Lupita Nyong'o. You want Brittany Snow –"

"I'm gay," Miguel blurts.

Dean's eyebrows shoot up.

"Miguel," he says. "Zachary Quinto is at this very party."

"That's… great?" Miguel replies hesitantly.

Dean slings a companionable arm around him. "My dear lad," he says, "I can set you up with Zachary. Quinto. I can see from the look on your face that he's your type. And I can tell you right now…" He looks Miguel up and down. "You are totally his."

Miguel inhales sharply.

"All you have to do…" Dean lifts up his wrist, and waggles the black bracelet there. "Is wear this little thing for the rest of the night."

"A bracelet?" Miguel asks.

"It's like a Fitbit," Dean explains. "Castiel uses it to keep track of me, and I need to duck out for a minute. I'm guessing that if I just take it off, it'll send him some kind of alert. I just need you to wear it until he starts looking for me so I can get a head start."

Miguel looks at the bracelet, the struggle warring on his face.

"Zach makes _really_ good pancakes," Dean murmurs. "Of course, they don't hold a candle to his blowjobs."

Miguel gulps.

…

Sam is roused from a dead sleep by an insistent knock on his hotel room door. He's in the state capitol, exhausted from a full day of photo opportunities and glad-handing, so when he opens the door, he's prepared to chew out housekeeping for ignoring his do-not-disturb sign.

A short young woman with curly hair and an old-fashioned boombox is standing there.

Sam squints and blinks at her. "What is it?"

"Your brother hired me to give you this message," she says. "He specifically requested I deliver it in this manner." She presses play, and hefts the boombox above her head.

The crooning voice of Freddie Mercury begins the song. "_Tonight, I'm gonna have myseellllf a real good time/ I feel ali-hi-hi-hiiiiiive…" _

Sam knows the song immediately, and walks back into his room to grab his cellphone.

The girl follows him into the room. "_So don't. Stop me nooooowwww. Don't stop me – 'cause I'm havin' a good time, havin' a good time!" _

…..

Castiel is still leaning against the hallway wall when his phone beeps.

It's an alert from Dean's tracker. He took it off momentarily and it lost his heartrate, but he put it right back on. That's not the unusual thing.

The unusual thing is that his location is shown all the way in the billiards room, on the other side of the mansion.

"Shit," Castiel mutters.

He takes off running.

…

Sam is pacing his hotel room when Castiel finally picks up. "Hello?"

"It's Sam," he barks. "I think Dean is about to do something really stupid."

"I'm already on it," Castiel answers, slightly out of breath. "How did you know?"

"He sent me a message," Sam replies. "He's rubbing my face in it, he's going to pull something, he's going to do something reckless, Castiel, you have to stop him, I'm three hours away, I can't _do_ anything –" Sam doesn't realize how fast he's talking until he stops for breath. "God, if he gets himself killed just to _spite_ me –"

"He's going to be fine," Castiel interrupts. "I'll take care of it."

"He just doesn't…" Sam sinks down on the edge of the bed, his legs suddenly feeling weak. "He's like a child. He does what he wants and doesn't care about consequences. He doesn't care who gets hurt." He covers his face with a shaky hand, and his voice cracks. "He's so fucking selfish."

Castiel pauses. "I won't let anything happen, Sam," he says. "I promise."

…

Dean whistles as he walks into the warm night air and onto the baked black asphalt of his personal tarmac. His helicopter is waiting there for him, all fueled up and ready to lift off, right on schedule. He trots up to it and climbs aboard, grinning at the pilot, and gives him a thumbs up.

He gets into the passenger seat,

and buckles in.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: _My wonderful, magnificent readers. I have been drinking, and I love you all. I'm at home alone and I've been making myself vodka martinis all night, because I have a cocktail shaker and vermouth and bitters, and if you don't use your cocktail shaker and your vermouth and your bitters, the Alcohol Witch will come in the night and mix all of your spirits with discount margarita mix and it will ALL BE RUINED._

_Ahem. _

_This chapter was a bitch to write, and hopefully it all makes sense to you and flows the way it flows in my head. If it doesn't, I apologize. Have a vodka martini on the house. If you leave a review, you will get two martinis and a tipsy kiss that presses a little too hard into your mouth to be entirely unintentional, followed by an insincere apology and burning glances throughout the night. The more effusive your review, the more burning the glances will become, until they coalesce into a hot whisper against your ear, a fingertip brushing the inside of your elbow, and words that have only one real meaning when they are arranged in this one soft, dark, unmistakable phrase. _

_Hoookay! Sorry guys, that got weird. Mayyyybe I should lay off the sauce. _

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

**The next day, just before 5 a.m. in Las Vegas, Nevada**

The pre-recorded organ music plays through the wedding chapel's cheap speakers. Dean grins sloppily at his bride-to-be, holding onto her for balance. She smiles back, too-white teeth and henna-red hair, and he desperately tries to remember her name.

The "minister" stands behind them and clasps his hands. "Dearly beloved," he announces, "we are here today to join these two in holy matrimony – "

"I do," Dean blurts.

The redhead giggles and opens her mouth to speak –

The chapel doors slam open. "Stop!"

Everyone turns to look.

Castiel storms in, bedraggled and furious. Eyes blazing, jacket torn, lip bloodied, knuckles scraped, face bruised, he marches up to Dean and grabs him by the collar. "This ceremony is over," he growls.

"Hey hey hey!" Dean protests, trying to wriggle away. "Who is this guy?! Someone call the police!"

Castiel's scowl deepens. "I _am_ the police."

"WHAT?!"

…..

…..

**Eight hours ago**

Castiel has just finished talking to Sam and is almost to the conservatory when his cell phone rings again.

"Dean gave me his bracelet," Miguel says.

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and groans in frustration. "Where did he go?"

"He's taking the helicopter. I don't think he knows that Louise requires his to pilots send her their flight plans directly."

"Where's Louise?"

"She's in the kitchen. I already called her and told her to meet you there."

"Thank you," Castiel says.

"Please don't tell him that I –"

"I won't."

….

"Las Vegas," Louise says. Her mouth is pinched tight with worry, and her fingers are busy on her laptop keyboard. "It'll take him two hours by helicopter. You might be able to head him off if you fly – I've booked you the next flight at LAX."

"Can't I just take the jet?" Castiel asks.

Louise stops typing and stares at him, affronted. "It's _Dean's_ jet, not a city bus," she huffs. "You can't just take it without his permission. Besides, good luck trying to get ahold of the pilot at this hour of the night. Dean arranged his little joyride ahead of time – we don't have that luxury."

"I can fly a jet," Castiel says.

Louise frowns at him, still staring.

"He probably won't mind," Castiel suggests.

"No." Louise goes back to typing at the computer. "I'm sorry, I can't authorize that. You need to go to LAX. I'm printing out your ticket."

"Thank you. I appreciate your help." He turns to walk away.

"Castiel," Louise says. Her eyes are sharp on his back, her words clipped and precise. "Have you ever considered that you might be part of the problem?"

He turns back.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"He's running away from _you_." She looks back to her laptop and clicks the mousepad. "He's never run away from any of us."

"No," Castiel says softly. "He certainly didn't run away from Allie."

Louise's eyes dart to his in surprise.

Castiel takes a deep breath and sighs. "You work for Dean. If he doesn't like what you do, he can get rid of you. I'm not so easily disposed of."

Then he walks over to the kitchen printer and grabs his ticket without a backwards glance.

Louise presses her lips tight and snaps her laptop shut.

…..

**Meanwhile, in the helicopter**

Dean digs into his overnight bag and pulls out a fistful of airplane shots. "Party time!" he announces to the pilot, waggling the little bottles of rum and tequila.

"Uhhhh," the pilot says.

"Not for you," Dean clarifies. "You're flying."

"I was gonna say…"

"But I got catchin' up to do." He unscrews a shot of Jose Cuervo and throws it back. "Haven't had a drink since 10 am. Too busy doing my best Steve McQueen impression! But the worst is over. Once we land…" He gulps down a shot of Malibu. "It's allllll Margaritaville, baby. Smooth sailing."

…..

**Twenty minutes later**

Castiel is at the airport, waiting impatiently to check in. Louise unfortunately (purposely) got him a ticket in coach, but since the flight is only an hour long he's prepared to make do. When he finally gets to the counter, he hurriedly pushes the ticket and ID to the clerk. "Castiel Smith," he says. "No bags to check."

The clerk types on the computer, then stops. She looks at him, and looks at the ID. "I'm sorry, sir," she says. "I can't issue you a boarding pass."

Castiel frowns. "What? Why not?"

She glances at the ID again. "Your name is on the no-fly list."

Castiel stares at her.

"That's impossible," he says. "I just flew a week ago."

"I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do."

Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel sees two large TSA agents walking toward him.

"I understand," he says. "I'll go." He quickly turns away from the agents and walks briskly out of the terminal, his thoughts churning and jumbling in his mind.

Dean. It had to be Dean.

How many of his other identities had been compromised?

He only had different Smith IDs on him – the rest of his passports and badges were at home, in the safe.

_Dean_. He was going to cause physical harm to Dean.

If he came back with a new ID, and someone recognized him, he'd be detained. Arrested. The odds were slim – they hadn't gotten a good look –

By the time he got home and back, he'd miss the flight. He wasn't going to beat Dean to Vegas.

How many? How many identities had Dean found?

"Screw it," he mutters. "I'll drive."

…

**Three hours later, Las Vegas**

Dean checks into the hotel and makes himself at home in the honeymoon suite. He pays the bellhop a thousand dollars to go get him an assortment of intoxicating liquors. He looks up several call girls and a few call guys and invites them all to join him for the evening – if he has any say about it, he's going to go out with a bang, in the most childish sense of the word. He gives the concierge another grand and asks him to buy him a new cell phone. Everyone smiles at him. Everyone dotes on him. Everybody loves him and he loves everyone, and he can't stop grinning because they love him for his money and he will_ never run out of money_.

The plan has never been better timed.

It's going to go off without a hitch.

….

**Meanwhile**

Castiel drives out on a lonely stretch of interstate. It's the middle of the night, and traffic is low. The road is quiet. Every so often bright beaming headlights glide toward him and zoom past in the opposite direction, shrinking red taillights in the rearview mirror.

A state patrol car pulls up behind him, and after following for a couple of minutes, turns on its red and blue lights.

Castiel pulls over.

The officer shines his flashlight in the driver side window. "License and registration, please."

As he reaches into his glovebox, Castiel suddenly realizes what is about to happen.

This officer pulled him over because he ran the license plates on the car, which is registered to Castiel Smith – the identity that has been compromised. If Dean has done his job right, the officer has stopped him because there is an outstanding warrant for arrest in Castiel Smith's name, or at the very least his license is suspended. In the patrol car, there is a computer monitor that will show the officer a photo of Castiel. If he produces the card with a different alias, the officer will still identify him and arrest him, tacking on a charge for false ID.

_You stupid, stupid idiot. You should have thought of the registration._

Castiel continues reaching for the glovebox, pulls out his registration, and hands it over to the officer with his Smith ID.

The patrol officer returns to his vehicle.

Castiel watches him closely in the rear view mirror.

This could be the moment. He could drive away now, and perhaps evade the officer. If he was in the city, this would be the moment he would run. But on this isolated highway, exits leading to two-lane towns, he doesn't stand a chance in a high-speed chase.

He waits.

The officer returns. "Mr. Smith," he says. "Could you step out of the vehicle for a moment?"

"Yes."

The officer steps back from the car door.

Castiel stretches his arms and cracks his back. He takes a deep breath.

He steps out of the car.

….

**In Vegas **

"IF YOU LIKE PINA COLADAS!" Dean belts at the top of his voice, scraping against the highest notes, stereo turned all the way up. "AND GETTING CAUGHT IN THE RAIN!"

The red-headed call girl laughs and kisses his shoulder, her hand trailing down his back. Dean can tell the gesture is meant to be sexual, but instead it makes him feel strangely childlike, like his mother's hand lightly grazing against him as he pulls away from her, that lingering touch as the child runs off and she stays standing there on the school steps watching him, watching until he looks back and waves.

"You," Dean says. "You're the one I wanna marry."

The redhead smiles, her pupils blown wide and her eyeshadow smeared around the edges. "You're such a sweetie."

"I mean it," Dean says, the room spinning around them in circles, dizzying, disorienting. "Thiz is the honeymoon suite. I'm gettin' married tonight. And you're the one I wanna marry."

….

**Right now**

One fist still twisted in Dean's shirt, Castiel reaches into his jacket and pulls out a leather badge, flashing it perfunctorily at the minister and the redhead. "Carl Johnson, FBI. This man is not who he claims to be. Arthur Harrison, you are under arrest for identity theft and human trafficking –"

"Human trafficking?" Dean groans. "Oh come on, you guys, he's just making this shit up!"

The minister and the redhead both back away from Dean.

Castiel lets go of his shirt. "Hands above your head," he orders.

"You're _not _a _cop_!" Dean insists.

Castiel reaches under his jacket and pulls out a semiautomatic pistol. He levels it at Dean. "Hands. Above. Your head."

"Jesus," Dean breathes, raising his hands.

"Turn around," Castiel barks. "Face down, on the altar!"

Dean complies, muttering curses under his breath.

Castiel holsters the gun, pulls out a pair of handcuffs and twists Dean's arms behind his back. He snaps the cuffs on tightly, pulls him upright, and shoves him down off the wedding platform. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law –"

"Careful there, Mr. Grey," Dean snarls over his shoulder. "Give a guy a safe word first, will ya?"

Castiel steers him by the shoulder and pushes him out the chapel doors. "You have the right to an attorney, and to have an attorney present while being questioned." The parking lot is empty except for a few lone sedan cars. Castiel steers him toward a nondescript black one. "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you –"

"Cut the act!" Dean snaps. "They're not fucking listening anymore! Christ, how are you even _here?_ I should have at least twelve more hours! You're the worst. I hate you so much. You're like if _warm lettuce_ was a _person_!"

Castiel leads him to a black sedan car and puts him in the back seat, then gets in the driver's seat. He doesn't say a word. He drives away from the chapel, away from the city, out towards onto the highway in complete silence.

The city gives way to sand, and the horizon of the dark blue sky hints with the pale glow of sunrise. Dean stares out the window, mesmerized by the disappearing stars, the slivered crescent moon slung low against the crest of the earth, the hollowness of the night and the burgeoning fullness of the dawn.

Castiel pulls over, and pulls Dean out of the car.

It's a flat stretch of road, a few patches of sagebrush and scattered rocks as far as the eye can see.

Dean squints and looks around. "What? You gonna kill me and bury me in the desert or something?"

Castiel grabs him by the shoulders and throws him to the ground.

Handcuffed, he lands hard on his shoulder, gravel and grit biting into his skin. The pain is nothing compared to the anger that surges through him. "Ooo_owwwwwwww!_" Dean shouts. "What the fuck?" There's sand and dirt in his eyes, on his lips, coating his blazer and pants. He tries to spit out the bits in his mouth. "Are you insane? Are you fucking insane?!"

Castiel glowers down at him, his clenched fists sporting raw scabbed knuckles. "There's nowhere to run," he says. "So it's time for some answers." Then he grabs Dean by the collar and heaves him up until he's standing again, and shakes him, hard. "_What the fuck is wrong with you?"_

"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with YOU?" Dean yells. "You pointed a fucking gun at me!"

"Marriage?!" Castiel demands, his entire body taut with fury. "Your big plan was to go to Vegas and get married?!"

"_Part_ of the plan!" Dean retorts. "Trust me, you haven't even _seen_ the plan yet! And yet _somehow_ you managed to step in just in time to ruin it all. Jesus, I can't believe you didn't get stopped the _entire_ way to Vegas!"

"Oh, I was stopped," Castiel seethes. "First, at the airport, when I found out I am now on the no-fly list. Then, on the freeway, when I was stopped for an outstanding warrant for _public indecency _in a _school zone_–"

Dean chuckles. "Man, I love Jerry. How'd you post bail so fast?"

Castiel glares at him. "I didn't."

Dean squints at him. "What, they didn't book you?"

Castiel glares harder, and points to his bloodied lip.

"Jesus Christ," Dean breathes. "You beat up a _cop? _Are you a fucking _psychopath?_"

Castiel's glower intensifies, and he tightens his grip on Dean's collar. In the dim early morning light, his eyes are an unnerving shade of pale blue, and the furrows of his brows are carved in lines of deep shadow. "_Yes,_" he growls.

Dean swallows.

"Luckily, I keep spare license plates in the trunk. The rest of my drive passed without incident." Castiel finally lets go of Dean, but his glower doesn't waver. "Why, Dean? Why would you do this?"

"It's nothing personal," Dean says. "Okay, it was a little personal. But it was all part of the plan."

"The plan," Castiel says tersely. "The plan to get married to a stranger."

"Well, I didn't want _Sam_ to get all the money!" Dean retorts without thinking.

Castiel frowns in confusion. "The money? What money?"

"Just take me home," Dean sighs, closing his eyes. "I'm really drunk and kinda high and I just wanna lay down. How did you even find me?"

"Your flight plan indicated Las Vegas," Castiel explains. "Then you used your credit card at the hotel. The concierge told me you were at the chapel."

"I really thought you were gonna be in jail by then," Dean remarks. "Lesson learned: next time, cash only."

"No! No next time!" Castiel barks. "_Why_ did you do this, Dean? What have I ever done to you? All I did was offer you the chance to turn your life around –"

"Ohhh, same puppet, different master!" Dean cuts back sharply. "You know, six years ago, if you came up to me and told me that somebody had a job for me, a purpose for me, I would have clung to it like a life raft. I would have fallen at your feet, _Castiel._ But I've seen enough shit since then, I'm not that gullible anymore. You people are all the same! Eeeeverybody wants something from me. I'm just a transaction to you! Tit for tat, quid pro quo! I let the Trust scratch my back, and next thing you know the Trust is knockin' on my door, askin' for their turn. It's just like all these women I fuck day in and day out, they don't give a shit about me, I'm not that charming, they just want a slice of the pie, 'cause I bleed money and I don't care because it's worthless to me and that's all it takes, just a little blood in the water and all the sharks come out to play and it's not just the money – it's me, they want a piece of _me_, they want to purchase some real estate in Dean Winchester so they can tell all their little friends and so I'll introduce them to all the _important people_ and GOD!" He realizes he's shouting now and his mouth is dry and he can't stop. "God, I am SO! SICK! Of the bullshit and the reciprocity and getting up in the morning and knowing I can be a complete_ shitstain_ of a _human being _and everyone will still be pawing at my door like a bunch of fucking dogs because what I do! Does! Not! MATTER! And there's NO WAY OUT! For the rest of my life, every day of my _fucking life_ NOTHING MATTERS! MY _LIFE!_ DOES! NOT! MATTER!"

Castiel stares at him, wide-eyed.

Dean pants, catching his breath.

He can feel the spittle wet on the edge of his mouth.

It was so much more than he meant to say, so much more truth than he meant to lay bare, and now he can see it dawning on Castiel's face. He's putting the pieces together.

"Dean," Castiels says slowly, "why did you want to get married?"

Heat rises up Dean's cheeks. "Seemed exciting," he lies. "Never been married. Thought I'd give it a try."

"Is there a provision for a future spouse in your will?" Castiel asks.

Dean looks at the ground, and kicks a rock. "Lawyers thought it was a good idea. Just in case I got married and something happened to me before I changed it. Me and Sam, our wills are fucking complicated. Gotta think of everything."

"If you're married when you die, how much does your spouse get?"

Dean chews the inside of his lip and lies again. "I dunno. Not much, probably."

Castiel pulls a key out of his pocket, and walks behind Dean. He unlocks the cuffs and pauses there a moment, his body a warm presence at Dean's back, a solid shadow. Then he steps back to face Dean, and looks him in the eye.

"Three months ago," Castiel says, "did you crash the car on purpose?"

And for some reason,

Dean is tired of lying.

He exhales, and lets the air deflate out of his shoulders, lets his body sink into the soles of his shoes.

"No," he answers truthfully. "No, there were a bunch of girls in the car, and I wouldn't – I didn't want them to get hurt. But it's funny. I don't remember the crash at all." He tucks his hands in his pockets and scuffs his shoe on another pebble. "I just closed my eyes, and everything went dark. It didn't hurt until afterward, when I woke up. And everyone kept telling me how lucky I was, how _lucky_ I hadn't been killed, how _lucky _I was to be alive…" His whole face is burning, and he can't meet Castiel's eyes. He looks out to the horizon, where the sunrise is burning pink and purple at the edge of the brown desert. "More I thought about it, the less lucky it seemed."

Castiel is gazing at him, he can feel it. He can feel his eyes boring into him. He doesn't say a word.

Dean chuckles to himself, but there's no humor in it. "It was gonna be stupid, you know? A stupid, accidental thing. 'Drunken billionaire falls off Vegas balcony.' Leave everybody pissed off at me instead of pitying me."

A moment of clear-cut silence hangs between them, an emptiness in the morning landscape.

"What about Sam?" Castiel asks softly.

Dean snorts. "What about him?"

"Did you consider what that would do to him?"

"It'd make his life a hell of a lot easier!" Dean retorts. "I'm his fuck-up brother who stands in the way of all his ambitions. Plus, think of all the sympathy points he could milk it for on the campaign trail…"

"Dean." Castiel grabs his arm.

Dean looks up at him.

Castiel looks him right in the eyes. "Sam was frightened when you left. He's terrified of losing you. When he hired me, he told me that my first and most important goal was to keep you safe. He would be devastated if anything happened to you."

A hard lump forms in Dean's throat, and he blinks back the stinging in his eyes and nose. "That's all talk," he says. "I called him up yesterday, told him everything about you and the Trust and your plans for me. You know what he did? He hung up on me." Another mirthless chuckle. "And the crazy thing is, I think it's because he trusts you. He trusts a _complete stranger_ over me."

Castiel doesn't seem surprised. "Have you given him any reason to trust you?"

"Sam made his position clear a long time ago!" Dean snaps. "He made his choices! I don't owe him anything!"

"He's trying," Castiel says. "He wants to help you."

"He wants to _change_ me!" Dean bites back hoarsely, the lump in his throat constricting. "He hates having to deal with me and my 'issues.' He's ashamed of me. I'm the problem he can't fix. I'm the burden he carries around, the weight on his back. And if anything happened to me, he'd be upset, sure, but I know, I know deep down…" He sucks in a breath and tries to steady himself, but his voice still breaks on the last word. "He would be _relieved_."

And against his will, the hot tears start to spill out the corners of his eyes. He turns away quickly from Castiel and kicks the tire of the car, and he takes in jagged breaths and tries to push down the squeezing hiccupping ache in his chest. He scrubs his eyes with the back of his fist and wipes a hand down his face. "Fuck. Dammit."

He can feel Castiel standing behind him, stepping closer.

"Dean," he says quietly. "There's no quid pro quo here. Not from me."

Dean turns back around, inhaling through his nose. "Oh, of course. You just chase down drunks across state lines for shits and giggles."

"I mean it." Castiel is looking at him with an expression that is equal parts pain and sincerity, a raw brightness to his eyes and a determined set to his bruised mouth. "I work for the Trust, and I think you should work for them. But the choice is yours. I will stand by you either way. I don't want you to do anything for me. All I want is to help you."

"Why?" Dean asks. "Out of the goodness of your heart?"

And unexpectedly,

Castiel put his hands squarely on Dean's shoulders and locks eyes with him.

"No," Castiel says, quiet and low. "Because I believe you are called to great purpose in this world."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean asks.

"I've been watching you for years. You're smart. You're talented. You're stubborn," Castiel says. "You win people over easily, you know how to manage them at executive levels, you know the corporate world inside and out. You have compassion, and for all you've tried to hide it, you have principles. You're a natural born leader, Dean. This nation _needs _leaders like you. You don't need to follow the Trust. The Trust should be following you. And wherever you choose to go, I'll go with you."

"How - how can you say that?" Dean asks incredulously. "After everything I've done? You think I'm someone worth _following_?"

The corner of Castiel's mouth turns up – that humored look. "I told you when we first met. I'm not that impressed by your bad behavior."

Dean gazes at him, stunned, and he huffs a disbelieving laugh, a half-smile cracking at his cheek.

Something warm and light and aching and dizzying blooms in Dean's chest, expanding from the center like ink bleeding through paper, soaking through his entire body and tingling between his eyes, and after a long heady moment he realizes he has a name for the emotion:

Hope.

_Hope_.

For the first time in six years, he feels genuine hope.

"How celibate are you, exactly?" Dean asks. "Like, getting a handjob is still on the table, right?"

"No," Castiel says firmly.

"But it's practically masturba –"

"No."

"C'mon, at least _consider_ it! I'm offering you a freebie!"

"No, Dean."

_"Man,_ you're a killjoy..."


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: _My delightful, delectable readers. Thank you so much for all of your wonderful responses. I am SO SORRY for the delay in bringing you this update - I went out of town this past weekend and time got away from me. I'm too bushed to belabor this A/N, but just let me say that I appreciate all your reviews, and if you review this chapter I will love you eternally and give you foot massages and snuggle you in the manner which you request to be snuggled. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Ten years ago, the West Coast headquarters of the Trust**

"Look alive, Smith!" Anna Johnson calls, approaching his cubicle with a thick folder in hand. "The boss lady approaches!"

Castiel swivels around in his desk chair and crosses his arms. "I believe the correct term is boss _person_."

"Silence, peon." She hands him the folder. "I am the boss lady. They even gave me a lady's name to seal the deal. It's not a nickname anymore - I'm officially Anna! No more Anael. Nooooo more jokes about whether people like Anael. This promotion is the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Congratulations," Castiel says warmly. "Anna suits you."

She smiles, then clears her throat and tucks her hair behind her ear. "Alright, let's get down to business. This is another prospect that got sent down from upstairs. It's a High Priority."

"High Priority? On the West Coast?" Castiel flips open the folder and looks inside. Alongside the report and profile analysis, there's a picture of a young man, bright-eyed and grinning, short brown hair and an expensive suit.

"Dean Winchester," Anna says. "Heir to the silicon throne, two years out of business school, already getting significant notice for his work at his father's company."

Castiel scans the report, gazes at the picture. That self-assured smile, that glow of wealth. "I don't know. He seems a little…"

"Douchey?" Anna suggests.

"Egotistical," Castiel replies dryly. "And he's only twenty six. This seems a little premature."

"They don't want intervention for another few years," Anna explains. "But they want someone from our team to go check him out, keep an eye on him, track his progress. Someone needs to keep tabs on him so that when the opportunity presents itself, we're ready to step in." She sits on the edge of Castiel's desk and looks at him. "He's yours, if you want him."

Castiel's heart leaps into the roof of his mouth. "A High Priority? Are – are you sure?"

Anna smiles. "Well, I'd take him for myself, but I'm a boss lady now. I don't take on prospects. So I decided to offer it to the best operative on my team."

Castiel feels an incredible lightness expanding in his chest, and he tries to articulate in words how grateful he is. "Anna, I…. I…"

"Don't thank me yet." She claps him on the shoulder. "Go see him, first. Make sure you want to take him on. If he's a non-starter, you don't want to be saddled with him for years. Evaluate the situation for yourself."

"You think I should make contact?" Castiel asks.

"Make contact, but don't make memories. You understand?"

"Yes." Castiel closes the folder and sets it on his desk. "I'll report back as soon as I can."

…..

**The next day**

Dean walks into the little coffee shop like he does every morning, waits in line, and greets the barista the way he does every morning. "Jenny!" he exclaims. "My favorite woman in the world! How's your morning so far?"

Jenny smiles brightly, just like always. "It's going good. How's my favorite _customer_ in the world?"

"Just fine, Jenny. Just fine," Dean answers sunnily.

"What'll it be?"

"The usual."

Truth be told, he doesn't need to go to this little coffee shop. If he asked his assistant to have his coffee ready for him every morning when he got to the office, it would be ready; he has an espresso machine at his apartment, and he knows how to make his own. But he enjoys this little routine. He enjoys an excuse to get out and waste time before he walks into the office and has to start working. And for some reason, ever since Sam left two months ago, he looks forward to his morning coffee more and more.

Jenny sets his coffee on the counter. "Here you are!"

"You are a goddess," Dean proclaims. He stuffs a few hundreds into her tip jar, just like he does every morning, and grabs his coffee. He turns to walk out the door, just like he does every morning –

and walks smack into another person.

The other man yelps and stumbles backward, his own coffee splashed down his front.

"Sorry, sorry!" Dean says. "Oh, jeez…" He turns back to the counter and grabs a handful of napkins. "Sorry, I didn't see you…"

The man accepts the napkins and attempts futilely to daub the brown stain off his pink shirt and taupe blazer. His tortoiseshell glasses are thick-rimmed and round, and with his short black hair combed upward at the front, it gives him the look of a peevish owl. "No, it's my fault," he mutters. "Should've put the lid back on…"

"Here." Dean sets his coffee on the counter, pulls out his pocketbook and uncaps the pen. "I just spent the last of my cash, but let me write you a check. How much was that blazer?"

"Oh, no no no," the man protests. "It's fine, really, nothing a little dry cleaning can't handle –"

"Dude, that blazer is toast," Dean insists. "Let's call it four hundred dollars. And with the shirt, probably six hundred even, right?"

"Six hundred?" the man squeaks.

"Sorry, seven hundred, then," Dean says. "If you paid more than seven hundred for _that_ outfit, that's on you, not me, buddy." He makes the check out for seven hundred, then stops. "Who do I make this out to?"

The man makes another feeble attempt at refusing. "Really, I can't… that's too much…"

"Trust me. I can afford it." He tears off the check. "Fine, I'll leave it blank. Make it out to whoever you want."

The man takes the check and stares at it, then looks up at Dean. "Dean Winchester?"

Dean smiles. "One and only."

"What a… strange coincidence, meeting you here." The man adjusts his glasses, and a hesitant anxious look steals over his face. "You see, I've been trying to get an interview with you for months."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You a reporter?"

The man's cheeks flush. "I'm – a journalist. My name is Jimmy Novak. I write for a financial blog."

"Is it a blog I've heard of?"

The man's blush deepens. "Probably not."

Dean considers the man for a moment, and then makes up his mind. He offers his hand. "Nice to meet you, Jimmy."

Jimmy shakes his hand firmly. The hopefulness is back in his eyes.

Dean grabs his coffee from the counter, and gives Jimmy a once-over. "Say, Jimmy," he says, "Where's your office?"

"About five blocks up the hill."

"Well, it's only 8:30 am and that blazer is done for," Dean says. "If you'd rather not spend the day looking like that, I've got a few spares at work just next door that you could borrow. How'd you like pop into the office with me?"

Jimmy's mouth opens and shuts a few times before he manages to answer. "I'd like that very much."

…..

Castiel is surprised by the turn the morning has taken.

He expected Dean to offer money. He has a history of gratuity in otherwise small gestures – he likes paying more for things than he needs to, either to boost his sense of his own largesse or to curry favor easily. He hoped (but did not expect) that Dean would agree to a short interview. He did not at all anticipate the scenario playing out now, which is that Dean is leading him on a guided tour of Winchester Incorporated on his way to giving Castiel some of his clothes.

He gets the feeling that this isn't usual for Dean, either. It's in the way he introduces every employee proudly, eagerly, excited to showcase them to Castiel. "This is Mari, she's the head of software development for our word processing program! AKA, she's a genius." Or, "This is Danny. Danny is the most important person in this entire building, because Danny is in charge of coordinating lunch." He knows all their names, and they all seem to regard him very well. There is a nervousness to some of them, but not fearfulness – more like the stammering anxiousness that clusters around a very attractive person at a mixer, anxiousness to impress. When he compliments them, they blush and glow.

Castiel was not expecting this.

They finally make it to Dean's corner office, an expansive sprawling thing with tasteful abstract art hung on the walls. Floor to ceiling windows have the entire room flooded with natural light, the morning sunshine scouring the oak desk and matching chairs. Dean opens up a closet door and rummages through several suit jackets and button up shirts. He picks out a pair and tosses them to Castiel. "Here, try these on!"

Castiel catches the shirt and jacket clumsily and ogles them conspicuously. Jimmy Novak would be intimidated by these expensive pieces. Is that what Dean is trying to do – is this some sort of chest-puffing assertion of status? A fanning of feathers? He takes off his shirt and buttons up the new one – light blue, with a dark navy jacket. The fitting is off, but the color suits him much better than his original outfit.

Dean eyes him critically. "Hmm. It needs something…" He dives back into the closet and emerges with a blue and white striped tie. He props open the closet door, which has a full-length mirror on the inside. "This should do it!"

Castiel steps up to the mirror and ties the tie around his neck, aware of Dean watching him. Playing the Jimmy part, he self-consciously fumbles the knot, fingers twisting clumsily and lips pressing tight with unmuttered curses.

"Here. Just let me do it." Dean takes the tie and unknots it, smooths it and tugs it even with practiced hands. Castiel is strangely aware of how close he is standing, how his fingers brush against his collar. "I used to tie my dad's ties for him all the time when I was a kid," Dean says, looping the fabric through. "He hates 'em. Never quite got the hang of 'em. Now he's so rich, he doesn't have to wear 'em. He could come to a stockholder meeting pantsless and still be the most respected man in the room. That's living the dream, eh?"

"Living the dream," Castiel murmurs.

Dean steps back and surveys his work. "There. Now you look presentable."

He does. Despite the fact that they're tailored for a taller man, Castiel looks much better in these borrowed clothes than in the Jimmy Novak getup.

He wonders if he may be stepping over the boundaries of "making contact."

Dean claps his hands together. "Okay, since I already wrote you a check, with the lending of these clothes you officially owe _me_ one. With this late start, I'll probably be leaving the office around…" He glances at his watch. "Eight or so. Why don't you swing by then, and you can buy me a drink to make up for it?"

Castiel blinks. "You want to… get drinks?"

"You owe me at least two beers, Novak," Dean says. There's a playfulness behind his eyes, a teasing tone in his voice.

"O-okay," Castiel says, his hesitation not entirely an act.

He wonders if he is the butt of some joke he doesn't fully understand.

….

Dean is more subdued by the evening, a full day of work having taken its toll on him. But he brightens when he sees Castiel, and his smile is genuine. A black Cadillac rolls up to the curb, and Dean waves him inside.

"I brought back your clothes," Castiel says, offering him the shirt and jacket. He changed into a brown argyle sweater vest, because Jimmy Novak is nothing if not a sweater vest wearer. "Thank you for letting me borrow them."

"No problem." Dean bunches them carelessly in the corner. "How was the rest of your day?"

Castiel pushes his glasses up on his nose. "Tedious."

Dean looks him up and down. "Dude. What are you wearing?"

Castiel glances down at his shirt. "Clothing?"

"Just…" Dean sighs. "Never mind. I was gonna take you to this dive bar I like, but you look waaaay too nerdy in that thing. We'll go to Tito's."

"It's not _nerdy_," Castiel grumbles.

"Argyle. Sweater vest," Dean retorts. "Standard issue nerd uniform."

Tito's turns out to be an upscale lounge, with low lighting and pricy elaborate cocktails. Dean orders a microbrew and sits with Castiel at the bar, cracking his knuckles and propping himself up with his elbow. "Alrighty," he says. "Let's get started with that interview."

"You – you're giving me an interview?" Castiel stammers. "Why?"

Dean eyes him. "Is this still off the record?"

"Off the record."

Dean leans in closer, his gaze sharpened and calculating. "I don't talk to reporters very often, Jimmy. Giving an in-depth interview to some little-known financial blog, giving people the chance to see the unvarnished truth about Winchester Incorporated, no agendas, no angles – that's the kind of thing that gets buzz. We have an image problem with the eighteen to twenty five demographic, and I think this is exactly the kind of thing they'll appreciate. They want somebody to shoot it to them straight. I want to lay my cards on the table."

The bartender slides over a bottle of beer.

"On the record?" Dean takes a drink. "I don't trust the major news outlets. They're fear-mongers. They want to turn whatever I say into a soundbyte. I'm not interested in that kind of journalism."

"You think I won't do the same?" Castiel asks.

Dean looks at him, his expression difficult to interpret. "I don't. You seem like a guy I can trust." He takes another long pull from the bottle, and looks him in the eye. "Are you a guy I can trust, Jimmy?"

Castiel swallows.

"Yes," he answers.

And in that moment, he feels the gravity of that word, _trust_, and he is desperate to do whatever it takes to uphold it.

"So start asking questions, Lois Lane," Dean says, grinning. "Hit me with your best shot."

…..

"No, no, no," Dean laughs. "That never happened! I mean, it's exactly the kind of crap Dad _would_ pull, but it never happened."

"I've met your father once, actually," Castiel says. "He is an intimidating man."

"That he is. Even to me and Sam, sometimes." He thumbs the damp loosening edge of the paper label on his beer. "You know, some kids, they look for heroes they wanna grow up to be. Firefighters, the President, Superman." A half-smile pulls upward on his cheek. "Me? I had the biggest hero in the world sitting at my kitchen table. To me, there was nobody taller than my dad, smarter than my dad, stronger than my dad…" He shakes his head. "Still isn't." He takes a deep breath, eyes focused on that label edge. "Someone that tall, they cast a long shadow. It's hard sometimes…" He trails off, his thumb flattening the label against the wet glass.

Then he looks over at Castiel. "Ehhh, what am I talking about, anyway. What's the next question?"

Castiel glances down at his notepad and flips back a few pages. "Is there something important happening in your department today, or do you work until 8 every night?"

Dean smiles ruefully. "The employees of WI are paid very well. We pay them well, because we work them hard. We only stay ahead of the competition if everyone is operating at maximum capacity. That two-way street is the secret to our success: we ask a lot, but we give a lot in return. And that starts at the top. If I didn't give a crap about turnover, if all our employees were interchangeable with the next thousand applicants, I could be vacationing in Tahiti right now, snoozing on a beach. But the higher up you are, the more responsibility you have to the people below you. If you don't give a shit about your job, you're signaling that you don't give a shit about _them_ – and they'll leave. They'll go work for our competitors." He shrugs. "And why shouldn't they?" he asks. "If I'm gonna ask these talented, dedicated folks to stick with WI, I gotta lead by example. I can't ask my employees to do anything I'm not willing to do myself." He shrugs again. "So I put in the hours. I do the work. I come in on weekends. I stay at the office until eight, nine, whatever it takes to keep things afloat. And I will tell you right now, it comes back to me a _hundred_ fold."

Castiel stares at him, this man who is so different than he anticipated.

"What?" Dean asks.

"It's just…" Castiel clears his throat. "You're very dedicated to the company."

"Course I am," Dean shoots back. "It's my _life_."

Castiel raises his eyebrows. "Your life?"

"Look, Winchester Incorporated is my dad's brainchild," Dean explains. "But if it's my dad's baby, it's like a little brother to me. I grew up with it. I helped raise it. I was there. I've poured my heart and soul and everything I have into this company, because I _believe_ in it."

"You believe in it?" Castiel asks skeptically. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, I believe in it!" Dean insists. He lights up, ready to wind into a speech, his face and hands animated. "Henry Ford believed in his company. When he started out, automobiles were luxury items for the rich and famous. Henry Ford believed in making cars affordable because he _believed_ that as many people as possible should have access to cars. Did you know, he was actually _sued_ by his fellow partners because they said he should be maximizing profits for the shareholders instead of trying to keep making his cars cheaper and cheaper! Ford didn't care. He saw the future, a future full of cars, and he believed in it."

"And you're Henry Ford?" Castiel asks.

"My _father_ is Henry Ford!" Dean corrects. He sits forward on his bar stool, all eager passion and fiery eyes. "He's the reason that so many people today have computers in their homes, Jimmy. He makes software that's cheap and accessible, and he single-handedly drove this country into the Information Age by producing computers that regular people could buy. Sure, it's not perfect. We're always working out new bugs. We may not be as _pretty _as other products on the market." He snorts derisively. "But that's the tradeoff! The Model T wasn't a fucking Lamborghini, that's for sure. Mass production has its shortcomings." He takes an enthusiastic swig of his beer. "I believe in computers," he says. "They're the future. I believe everybody around the world should be able to have a computer, and I believe that my company is the _key_ to realizing that dream."

Castiel can't tear his eyes away. He suddenly realizes how far forward he's leaned in his seat, matching Dean's posture.

Dean finishes off the dregs of his beer and sets it on the bar. "That should probably be my last drink," he mentions. "Once the speechifying starts, it's time to call it a night. The next phase is aggressive competitiveness, and trust me, you do not want within fifty feet of a pool table when that hits…"

….

They part ways with a handshake and smile. Castiel promises to send the link to the article he's pretending to write.

He can't stop himself from asking.

"Dean," he says, "why did you do this, today?"

"I already told you," Dean says, "the publicity will be –"

"No." Castiel is letting a little edge slip through, a little fragment of his true self slicing through the seams. "Tell me the real reason."

Dean looks at him for a long moment.

"I wanted to talk," he admits wistfully. "I miss… getting to just talk."

_Make contact. Don't make memories_.

"I enjoyed talking with you," Castiel says.

And he leaves.

…..

Anna pops into the office around 11 pm to grab a file she meant to take home. Strangely, a few lights are still on – down by Castiel's cubicle…

"Cas? What are you doing here?"

Castiel is sitting at his desk, the Winchester file opened in front of him, staring blankly. "Anna," he says, his voice low. "He's the real thing."

"Who? Winchester?"

Castiel looks up at her, his eyes wide and urgent. "He's the one. He's going to be the one, I can just see it. I need this assignment."

Anna frowns. "What in God's name did he say to you?"

"He's – _perfect_," Castiel blurts, reddening slightly. "He's everything we're looking for. Smart, well-liked, driven, genuine, and he – he has this _charisma_, Anna – like none of the others I've worked with. He already believes in our cause and understands our mission, without even knowing it. He's the one."

"I've never seen you this invested," Anna marvels. "I told you before, the assignment's yours."

"Thank you," Castiel says, turning even redder.

She pats him on the back. "Now call it a night. Go home to your wife. Get some sleep."

Castiel stretches and cracks his back. "I will. As soon as I finish this report…."


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: _My beauteous belligerent bluebells! Thank you to everyone who is still here reading this fic chapter after chapter, even when these gosh-durned kids just won't gosh-durned kiss each other and get married already. This chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but I hope you'll still enjoy it. As a heads-up, my next week is "dead week" and then the following week is my LAST EVER finals week, so my next update may be delayed. I honestly probably shouldn't have been working on _this_ chapter as it is, but I WON'T LET LAW SCHOOL BREAK MY INDOMITABLE CREATIVE SPIRIT! _

_Aka: studying is boring, writing is fun, the rest is history. _

_If you leave a review for this chapter, your reward will be one of my roomate's cats who woke me up in the middle of the goddamn night last night, meowing and scratching at my door for no goddamn reason. Here. Take her. She's yours. Merry Christmas. Good luck sleeping._

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

**Now**

In the early morning, Sam gets a text from Castiel.

_I'm with Dean. He's fine. Will call with details later. _

Relief floods over him. He tells himself that he wasn't really worried, he was just angry, and the relief he is feeling is just his frustration finding release. And he almost believes it...

But he remembers the crash. He remembers the night of the crash as clearly as if it happened minutes ago instead of months. He remembers the phone call, the way his body went numb and time stood still. He remembers what was left of Dean's car sitting in the junkyard, crumpled like a piece of foil. And he remembers, but he tries not to remember – he remembers when he walked into the hospital room, and looked down at his brother lying unconscious and perfectly still, bruised, arms flat at his sides, pale, very pale, his eyes slightly sunken into their sockets, and his face unnaturally slack; and he remembers thinking,

_This is what he'll look like when he's dead_.

The certainty of that thought.

Like a premonition.

And whenever he thinks about it he gets angry again, furious at the selfish brother who would drag him through all that and not learn damn thing, furious that his brother is out there right now doing the same reckless things again and again, furious that the thought of losing Dean can make him feel so scared and so alone when, in all the ways that matter, Dean is already gone.

…..

Dean sulks in the passenger seat, slumped against the car door. The side of his forehead presses against the window glass, his blazer pulled tight around him and the collar turned up. "Pleaaaase," he groans, "Please let's go back to the hotel."

Castiel doesn't respond. He just keeps driving.

"I need a shower. And some water. And some booze. And I left all my stuff there." Dean closes his eyes. "Take me back to the hotel. I'll be good. I promise."

The sun is climbing higher above the desert. It is officially daybreak.

"Pleaaaaaaaase," Dean whines. "Castielllllllllllll. I'm gonna hurl if I don't get a drink in me."

"Is that your hangover cure?" Castiel asks dryly.

"It's my everything cure!"

Castiel glances over at him. "The court ordered you to complete an alcoholism treatment program."

"Yeah, and I completed it. _Complete _being the operative word. Finished. Done-zo."

"You were sober for three months."

"Three loooooong months," Dean mutters.

"You didn't find it useful?"

Dean snorts. "No."

"Why not?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Because I didn't need it," he retorts. "Look, some people, alcohol causes them all sorts of problems. For them, getting dry turns their life around. Good for them. But booze doesn't cause me any problems. It just fixes 'em. So I don't see any point in stopping."

"How can alcohol possibly _fix_ any of your problems?" Castiel demands.

"Okay, so maybe 'fix' is the wrong word." Dean sighs heavily and turns his face further into the window, his breath fogging momentarily on the cool glass. "It's like… okay, it's like in college, the best parties were always in some shitty, disgusting frat house. Everyone would just pile in there and you'd have the most fantastic night of your life, but when you wake up the next morning, you'd look around and be so fucking grateful you don't have to live there." He stares out the window at the flat desert rolling by them, the long lone stripe of black asphalt highway stretching into the distance. "Well. My life is a shitty, disgusting frat house. And the parties –" He smiles nostalgically. "Man, the parties will blow your fucking mind. The booze and pills and coke and weed, they all keep the party going. But when the party's over…" The smile shrinks off his face, receding back into his mouth. "Well. You wouldn't wanna live there."

Castiel considers this silently for a moment.

"You know," he says carefully, "most fraternity houses are disgusting _because_ of all the parties."

"It's a metaphor!" Dean snaps.

"Maybe, if the fraternity brothers respected their property a little more –"

"No! You do NOT get to turn this around on me!"

"You don't think if you –"

"Even before the party, my life was always a frat house!" Dean cuts in. "I just didn't know it yet. I was too stupid to see what was right in front of my fucking face."

Castiel's eyes flicker at him sidelong, then back to the road.

"What?" Dean demands.

"What…" Castiel's hands tighten on the steering wheel, and his voice lowers. "What _happened_ to you, Dean?"

"What're you talking about?"

"When your father died." Castiel stares straight ahead, his brows knotting together. "You changed. Almost overnight."

Dean tugs his blazer tighter, the upturned collar covering the lower half of his face. "None of your business, Dr. Phil," he mumbles. "I've had enough sharing and caring for one day."

"Tell me."

"No."

"You can either tell me, or I put on the radio."

"Go right ahead!" Dean exclaims. "Pump up the jam!"

"We have six more hours to drive," Castiel reminds him.

"I know! All the more reason for some tunes!"

"_I_ will choose the station."

"Sure, sure," Dean agrees. "You thinking classical music? I can dig it. You want top 40 songs? Ain't no thang. Whatever you put on is fine by me!"

Castiel reaches forward, and turns on the radio. He quickly scans through the stations until he hits the one he's looking for.

A woman's voice, interrupted mid-sentence, comes through the speakers: "- _here on Spirit 106.2, home of modern Christian music, all our programming is safe for the whole family_ –"

Dean sits up. "Christian music?!" he demands. "You've gotta be shitting me!"

"_Up next: Carrie Underwood with 'Jesus Take the Wheel_.'"

"Jesus Take the Wheel?!" Dean shouts. "Jesus, take my fucking life! Just kill me and be done with it!"

Castiel has that humored look on his face.

He turns up the radio.

"_She was driving last Friday on her way to Cincinnati/ On a snow white Christmas Eve…_"

…..

**Two hours later**

"_Jesus take the wheeeeeeeeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL!"_ Dean sings in falsetto, doing his best to pantomime an impassioned performance. It's the third time the song has played in the last two hours, and he's getting pretty good at it. "_Take it from my haaaaaaaaands! Cuz I can't do this own my owwwwn…" _He spreads his palms out and looks heavenward, really mugging up his face with the pathos of it all. "_I'm letting gooooo! So give me ONE more chance!_" He holds up a single finger. "_Save me from this road I'm ooooooonnn…"_

Castiel switches off the radio, the irritation plain on his face.

"But… the chorus," Dean says. "It wasn't over."

Castiel says nothing.

They drive in silence for a few minutes, the road long and monotonous ahead of them.

"So how long you been celibate?" Dean asks.

Castiel frowns. "What does it matter?"

"I'm just wondering, like, how _pent up_ you are," Dean explains. "Or wait – are you –" He looks bug-eyed at Castiel. "Are you a forty-year-old virgin?"

"I've had sex," Castiel growls.

"Oh thank God." Dean puts a hand to his chest and exhales dramatically. "Phew. I thought I was gonna have to stage an intervention."

"Virginity is not an affliction," Castiel mutters. "It's a social construct."

"Says the unafflicted man," Dean points out. "Trust me, some people, they just wanna –" He makes a sharp whistle between his teeth and a tossing hand gesture – "throw out that V-card."

Castiel doesn't try to argue further.

Silence descends once again. A small hillock rises in the distance, drawing inexorably closer, until it finally passes by them.

"So when's the last time you fucked?" Dean says.

"Why are you so obsessed with sex?" Castiel asks exasperatedly.

"Why are you _not_?" Dean returns. "It's a basic human instinct, it feels amazing, it's responsible for probably ninety percent of all art and eighty percent of all wars. Sex is – it's _sex!_"

"It's _just_ sex," Castiel corrects. "Biologically, an orgasm from intercourse is nearly identical to an orgasm from masturbation. And celibacy does not preclude masturbation."

"Oh come on," Dean argues. "Are you honestly telling me you don't _miss_ sex?"

"I miss the other things more," he says.

Then he freezes, realizing what he said.

Dean stares at him. "What other things?"

Castiel's hands clench tight on the wheel, his eyes wide and pointed resolutely forward. "Nothing," he says. "It's irrelevant."

"Irrelevant to _what_?" Dean demands.

"I don't miss sex," Castiel barks.

Dean shifts in his seat, turning his body around so that he can face Castiel fully, and glares hard at him. "Let me get this straight," he says. "You want me to trust you not to screw me over, when you have apparently been spying on me for years; you want me to believe you have my best interests at heart, but give me _no _reason why you even fucking care except that you _like_ me; and now you want me to open up to you about the most personal, private, awful moments of my life, and you won't even tell me what you miss more than sex."

Castiel won't meet his eyes.

"This is a two way street, Cas," Dean says.

Castiel's lips press together tight, and he glances at Dean.

His hands flex on the steering wheel.

"I've been celibate for eight years," he says quietly.

Dean stares at him.

It's difficult for Dean to even comprehend. _Eight years_. He tries to do the math in his head of how many people he's slept with in the past eight years, and fails.

"How – how –" Dean tries to assemble words. "But – why?"

Castiel exhales a long breath. "Efficiency reasons."

"Eff– efficiency?" Dean stammers. "For sex? What? _Efficiency_? Eight years!"

"It's easier this way," Cas says. "My life is simpler." He looks at Dean for a moment. "I honestly don't miss sex very much."

"Simpler?" Dean asks. "You work for a fucking secret political organization, since when are you interested in _simple?_"

"My life is very different from yours, Dean." Cas takes a breath and rolls his shoulders. "My time and energy are limited resources. I have to prioritize. For me, sex requires significant time and energy. If I make sex a priority in my life, some other area will suffer. Even a low priority would cost me. Cutting out sex entirely was an easy answer for me. I don't expect you to understand."

"What in God's name could be such a high priority that you would give up _sex?"_ Dean demands. "What could possibly be that important?"

"Right now?" Castiel looks over at him, and a smile curves at the corner of his mouth. "You."

Dean stares back at him, and his pulse beats uncomfortably against his throat, almost like panic rising.

Castiel looks back to the road. "My work is my highest priority, and _you_ are my job right now."

The beating in Dean's throat subsides, and he relaxes muscles he didn't realize he had clenched.

"Well," Dean says. "I have an obvious solution."

"I'm not having sex with you."

"It's a two-fer, Cas! Two priorities for the price of one!"

"We've been through this."

"You never told me what you miss more than sex," Dean reminds him. "I'd be willing to let that go if you just… distracted me in some way… possibly involving nudity…"

Cas sighs. "I miss being in a relationship," he admits. "I miss… having someone waiting when you get home. I miss having someone to say goodbye to in the morning. I miss…" He hesitates. "I miss being in love, I suppose."

There's an empty ache in Dean's stomach. But then, that's probably the hangover. "Guess I'm lucky, then," he says. "I don't know what I'm missing out on."

Cas glances at him.

"Alright, time for me to get some shut-eye." Dean turns his body into the corner between the seat and the door, and lays his head against his shoulder. He reaches back and hits Cas on the arm. "You too, buddy. Get some rest. Give Jesus the wheel for a couple hours."

Cas snorts. "Ha ha," he says.

Behind his upturned collar, Dean grins to himself.

….


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: _Hello, my corpuscular caterpillars! I've missed you all so very very much. Oh, why yes, I DO have a three-hour final tomorrow at 8:30 am. And why yes, I AM using this time to write and post gay fanfiction! No, no, my priorities are PERFECTLY in order and all of this makes complete sense for me to do. Yes, I am truly a healthy individual! _

_Yeah, I may have a problem. _

_This chapter was honestly really difficult to compose, because I had several different competing objectives and I'm always trying to keep a good handle on the pacing/tone of the overall story, as well as the individual chapter. There were literally thousands of words that I wrote and subsequently cut from this thing, some of which may appear in later chapters but a bunch of which just have to be tossed out. It's times like these that make an author say, "JESUS I should just SALT AND BURN the entire thing and start a NEW FIC called JODY MILLS' HOME FOR WAYWARD GIRLS and it will just be JODY AND CLAIRE AND WHAT'S-HER-FACE SHOOTING THINGS and EVERYTHING WILL BE BEAUTIFUL AND NOTHING WILL HURT!" However, it was you, my dear readers - the thought of you, pining for a new chapter - that gave me the strength to go on. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I love you so much. _

_So, here's what I ended up with, after all that editing, and hopefully you'll enjoy it. As always, please review, because reviews make me okay with the fact that I'm going to flunk this damn final tomorrow. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Twenty six years ago**

Dean puts five cold hotdogs into a pot of water.

"I want two," Sammy insists, standing on his tiptoes to peer up onto the stove.

"Not until you finish the first one," Dean says. "I don't want your gross leftovers." Then he eyes his little brother and adds, "And don't stand so close. You're gonna get burned." He turns up the burner to high and puts the lid on.

Sammy inches backwards slightly, but still keeps his face pointed eagerly towards the stovetop, nose in the air. "Mrs. Ross says I'm very responsible," he says. "So probably I can use the stove."

"No."

Dean gets the ketchup and mustard out of the fridge and drags the kitchen stool up to the cupboards. He's getting taller all the time, but he's still not tall enough to reach the plates. He gets Sammy's favorite plate (red with lots of scratches on it) and a couple of glass dinner plates for himself and Dad. He gets the bread from the pantry and puts one slice for Sammy, two for himself, two for Dad. He drizzles each slice with ketchup _first_ (this is important) and then mustard.

He has a system, and the system works.

"Today Mrs. Ross told us about the planets," Sammy says. "And I told her I already knew about the planets, and she said that was great, and then I told her all the planets' names, and then Joey S. said I left out the moon, and so I told him about how the moon isn't a planet because planets go around the sun and the moon goes around the earth. And then he got mad, and later at recess he kicked me in the leg."

"Which one is Joey S.?" Dean asks. "The one with the curly red hair?"

"No, that's Joey H., Joey S. has spiky blonde hair."

"How come you didn't get me? I was over by the monkey bars."

Sammy takes a big breath and exhales loudly, and he puts his hand on his hip, and he looks at Dean very seriously. "I have to be my own man now," he says.

Dean frowns. "Who told you that? You're not a man. You're just a little kid."

Sammy makes a face. "Nuh-uh! I'm six! I'm one of the _big_ kids!"

"Well, I'm ten," Dean retorts, "which means I'm a _teen_-ager." He lifts the lid to the hotdog pot and mutters under his breath, "… technically."

"What?"

"I'm a teenager!" Dean repeats emphatically. "And your teens is when you become a man. So it's fine, you don't gotta be a man yet." He makes a fist and punches it into his hand threateningly. "You already got the baddest man at Ridge Hill Elementary looking out for ya."

"Well, Dad'll be mad if you get in a fight," Sammy points out.

"Wouldn't _be_ a fight," Dean scoffs. "One look at me, and little _Joey S. _would be runnin' for his mommy."

"Dean," Sam says in a patronizing tone, "sometimes you just have to let me fight my own babbles."

"_Who_ is telling you this stuff?" Dean demands angrily.

"Nobody!"

"Oh yeah? Then what's a babble?"

"It's a bad guy," Sammy answers confidently. "Like an enemy."

"No it's not!" Dean snaps. "You said it wrong, it's 'you have to fight your own _battles_,' stupid!"

"I'm not stupid!" Sammy shouts.

"You're stupid and a baby!" Dean shouts back.

"I'm _not a baby_!" Sammy shrieks. He hurls himself at Dean and kicks and hits him, flailing his arms and screeching.

Dean fights back, hitting him and wrestling him to the kitchen floor, and Sam claws at his face with his sharp little fingernails and Dean resists the urge to bite, but he drives his elbow into Sam's stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and pins him to the ground with his knee and rattles him by the shoulders. "Baby!" he shouts. "You're a baby!"

The boiling pot rattles on the stove.

Sammy gasps for air, tears rolling down his red cheeks, and he doesn't normally cry, he doesn't usually cry in a fight.

"Owww," he sobs, "oww, Dean…"

And all of a sudden Dean feels a hot, awful twisting in his stomach, and he looks at his hands squeezed bruise-tight around Sammy's small shoulders, and he realizes too late that he's hurting him, really hurting him.

He lets go of Sammy and stands up.

"I didn't mean to," he says. "I didn't mean to."

Sammy curls on the floor and hugs his shoulders, tears still streaming.

Dean turns off the stove and moves the hotdogs off the burner. "Sammy," he says, "dinner's ready."

Sammy keeps crying, rubbing his eyes with his hand. He gets up, but instead of going to sit at the table, he runs out of the kitchen.

"Sammy!"

The bedroom door slams.

The feeling in Dean's stomach gets worse.

He divvies up the hotdogs and folds the bread into buns around them. Then he takes Dad's plate upstairs, to the office.

Dad is on the phone when he opens the door, sitting at his desk staring at his computer. The screen is bright blue – not a good sign. He rattles off technical gibberish that Dean doesn't understand, but it all sounds very important.

Dean quietly waits for Dad to notice him.

Finally he sees him. "Alright, Zach, I gotta go. See you tomorrow." He hangs up and rubs his eyes. "Is it six already?" he groans. "Sorry, I forgot about dinner."

"It's okay," Dean says, handing his father the plate. "I took care of it."

"Thanks." Dad takes a big bite of one of the hotdogs, and then looks up at Dean. "I'm lucky to have you around," he says. "You really keep this household running, Dean. You're a big help."

Dean blushes and stands a little straighter. He walks toward the desk hopefully. "I like helping out. Maybe I could help you with work sometime," he offers.

Dad gives him a serious look. "Not yet," he says. "But you keep working hard at school, you keep doing the worksheets I give you, and one day, you're gonna run this company with me."

"And Sammy too?" Dean prompts him. "When he's big enough?"

Dad smiles. "When he's big enough." He takes another bite of his hotdog.

Dean feels the guilt chewing at him, that awful twisting still churning in his stomach, and he knows he has to say something before Dad finds out from Sammy. He blurts out, "Sammy and I were fighting. And… I knocked him down. I think I hurt him a little."

Dad looks at him darkly. "You did _what?_"

"He started it!" Dean exclaims. "He's such a little stuck-up know-it-all, and he kept saying he was a man and he's not! He thinks he's so smart but he's just a little kid, and he acts like he doesn't need my help but he _does._ And he –"

"Stop! Enough." Dad sets down his hotdog with a frustrated sigh. "I don't care who started it, Dean! Sammy's half your size. Do you think that's a fair fight?"

Dean swallows. "Guess not," he mumbles.

"I said, _do you think that's a fair fight_?" Dad asks sharply.

Dean clears his throat. "No, sir."

"You're the older one. You need to _act your age_, Dean," Dad says. "I don't care what Sammy says, you can't be brawling with him. He's _six_. It's your job to rise above it. That's just the way it is. You're his big brother – you're supposed to protect him and take care of him, not hurt him!"

Dean's eyes are focused on his shoes. "Yes, sir."

"Look at me."

Dean looks up.

Dad stares him down for a long moment, his dark brows furrowed. "I expect better from you, Dean. Is that clear?"

Dean can feel the shame curling up the sides of his neck and eating into the pit of his stomach. "Yes, sir."

Dad gazes at him for another moment, and then turns back to his computer.

"Go apologize to Sammy," he says. "And tell him to come talk to me when you're done."

Dean walks back downstairs with a heavy heart.

He gets Sammy's dinner, and takes it to their bedroom.

Sammy is lying on his bed, facing the wall, towards the pictures he has taped up in a scattered collage – pictures cut out of magazines, of planets and tigers and ice skaters and astronauts, all the things Sammy likes. The lights are out, and he lays there on his side in the dark.

"I brought you dinner," Dean says, flipping on the light.

"Go away," Sammy says. "I hate you."

Dean stops in his tracks.

"You don't hate me," he says. "Right, Sammy? You don't really hate me."

"Yes I _do_," Sammy insists, sitting up in his bed. His eyes are red and his cheeks are still damp. "I hate you more than anybody else in the world!"

He puts Sammy's plate on his dresser and sits on the edge of Sammy's bed. "I'm sorry I hurt you," he says. "I didn't mean to hit you that hard."

"Yes you did," Sammy argues. "You wanted to prove I'm a baby, so you hit me as hard as you could so I'd cry like a baby!" He flings himself back towards the wall and shouts into his pillow, "_Why are you so mean to me?"_

Dean sits there for a minute, looking at Sammy's back, trying to come up with an answer.

"I don't know," he says. "I'm not trying to be mean to you, Sammy, it just happens and… I wasn't trying to prove you're a baby, I know you're not really a baby, I was just mad because, because sometimes the way you act, I dunno, like you don't need me around, it makes me mad, but I shouldn't have pushed you down like that, but sometimes you can be _so annoying, _but I know you're not trying to be and I'm older and I should know better, and I can't be –" He sighs. "Never mind. What I'm trying to say is… I didn't do it on purpose. I'm just… kind of a jerk, sometimes. So, I'm sorry."

Sammy's shoulders hunch inward.

"So, I'm sorry," Dean says.

No response.

"I said, I'm sorry."

Nothing.

Dean exhales heavily. "Sammy, I'm _sorry_. Really. You're not a baby."

Silence.

"You're the least babyish kid I know," Dean says. "_Way_ tougher than Joey S."

Sammy continues ignoring him.

Then Dean leans over him and says casually, "That's not saying much though, because…" He drops his voice to a whisper. "_Joey S. is a little bitch_."

Sammy flings upright with an outraged gasp. "You _cussed!_"

"Barely!" Dean argues.

"You're gonna be in trouble!"

"Who's gonna tell?" Dean challenges. "I ain't gonna tell. You gonna go tattle on me?"

Sammy looks at him for a moment, as though weighing his options.

Then he makes up his mind. "Joey S. is an _asshole_," he says loudly, relishing the forbidden word.

Dean laughs. "Yeah, he is." He reaches over and grabs Sammy's plate. "Anyway, I _made_ you dinner and everything, but if you don't want it…"

"You made _hotdogs_," Sammy scoffs, snatching the plate from him. "You only make easy food."

"All the best food is easy!"

"Bet you can't make _chicken parmagiana_."

"What the hell is chicken parmajonna?!"

"I saw it on Julia Child."

"Do I look like Julia Child to you? Sheesh, course I'm not gonna make some weird chicken thing, you dork…"

….

….

….

**Now**

Dean is asleep in the passenger seat, and Castiel drives.

The afternoon sun is hot and glaring; the heat waves rise off the asphalt in rippling sheets in the distance. Castiel has put on a pair of sunglasses, but it's still uncomfortably bright. At least now they're out of the desert and the landscape has a little more variation, occasional distractions flashing by to break up the boredom.

He peeks over at his passenger every so often. Dean is dead to the world, slack-jawed and snoring lightly, his face mashed against the window. He looks guileless in this state, child-like.

It's amusing, somehow.

He isn't quite sure why Dean is so obsessed with propositioning him, except that he views it as some sort of challenge. Dean seems baffled by the idea that Castiel doesn't find him sexually attractive. Cas glances over at him again.

His mouth hangs open as he snores, dried spit collecting in the corners of his lips.

Castiel smiles to himself. _You're right, Dean. I just don't know _how_ anyone could resist you._

….

An hour or so later, Castiel stops for gas, and Dean groans awake. They buy food and coffee, and stretch their legs before getting back on the road.

They're closer to the city now, though thankfully they won't have to drive into it to get home. Instead it's outskirts and backroads, forests and turn-offs for lake resorts. Dean doesn't go back to sleep, but he doesn't talk either. He's withdrawn, absorbed in his own thoughts. He just sips on his paper cup of gas station coffee, and stares absently out the window.

"Sam mentioned that you left him some sort of message," Castiel says.

Dean chuckles. "Yes, I did. I did indeed."

"Maybe you should call him. Let him know you're alright."

Dean groans and rubs his forehead. "Yeahhh, I don't talk to Sam without a drink in my hand if I can avoid it. So that's gonna be a hard pass."

Castiel frowns. "Why?"

"Because talking to Sam is like a fucking Nickelback song," Dean retorts. "All he ever does is tell me what a shitbag I am, and then I get mad and act like a shitbag, and then I have to go around feeling like a shitbag until I can drink it off. So I don't like to talk to him unless I'm at least halfway to intoxicated."

"But you were dry for three months," Castiel says. "You must have talked to him then."

Dean groans. "Man, that was the woooorst. As soon as I signed up, he went from being the world's biggest nag to a fucking Hallmark movie. Every sentence out of his mouth was another goddamn platitude." He puts on a false smile and does a high-voiced imitation of Sam. "_Just take it one day at a time! The night is darkest before the dawn! You can do it, Dean, I believe in you!_" He rolls his eyes. "Shovel after shovel of bullshit. I told him straight up that I was just doing it so I could get my license back eventually. He didn't listen. He didn't _want _to listen. He really believed some 12 step higher-power mumbo jumbo was gonna magically fix me."

"It works for some people," Castiel remarks.

"You gotta believe in it for it to work," Dean replies. "Like the placebo effect. I fuckin' knew I was getting sugar pills."

Castiel glances over at Dean, and chooses his next words carefully.

"When we get back, I'm going to ask you to make some changes," he says.

Dean sighs. "Yeah, I figured."

"You don't have to believe in everything I ask you to do," Castiel continues. "But you do need to sincerely commit yourself to _trying_."

Dean just looks out the window and takes a drink of his coffee.

"Can you at least give me that?" Castiel asks. "A sincere effort?"

Dean doesn't answer.

Castiel sighs inwardly and turns his attention back to the road. It was a long shot, anyway. He only just got Dean to stop fighting him tooth and nail; perhaps in a few days –

"It wasn't overnight," Dean says.

Castiel glances at him. "What?"

"You said I changed overnight." Dean looks at him. "That's just how it seemed from the outside. But actually it was brewing for years. More than years. Really, I think my entire life was building me up for it, just…. Piece by piece, one domino lined up after another."

"How?" Cas asks.

Dean takes a long sip of his coffee. "You know where Sam got the idea to hire me a handler, right?"

"No."

"My dad did the same thing to Sam, when he was in high school," Dean explains. "Sam was a rebellious little shit, and my dad caught him and his stoner friends with smoking pot in the garden when they were supposed to be in school. Dad blew a gasket, threatened to send him to military school, threatened to turn him into the _police_, and he ended up hiring a handler to babysit him and keep his ass in check. All because Sammy had a joint."

Dean takes another drink of his coffee, and turns towards Castiel, shifting in his seat. "But what nobody else knew, not even Sam," he continues, "is that my dad had already caught _me_ smoking pot a year earlier."

Castiel looks at him in surprise.

"I was in my room, by myself. Dad must have smelled it." Dean stares off into space, engrossed in the memory. "He took one look at me, grabbed the joint out of my hand, and said, 'Don't you _ever_ smoke weed again.'" He sips his coffee. "And I didn't. Not until after he died."

"Then why was he so angry with Sam?" Castiel asks.

Dean takes a deep breath. "It wasn't about the pot," he explains. "It was about control. Dad knew that Sam didn't give a shit about what he said. If Dad forbid him from smoking again, he'd just sneak off and do it in secret somewhere. The threats, the handler, he did all that stuff to try and get Sam to obey him, to rein him in. But with me…" He exhales heavily. "Dad knew. Sit, stay, heel." He snaps his fingers. "Good boy. All he had to do was give the command." His hand tightens on his coffee cup. "And at the time, I actually took that as a source of pride. I thought it meant he _trusted_ me."

"I'm sure he did," Castiel says.

Dean barks a laugh. "Sure. He trusted me to do whatever he said. I was so well trained, Cas, so well trained…" He tips up the coffee up and gulps down the last ounce. "I did everything I could to please him. I modeled my entire life after him. And for most of my life, that was exactly what he was looking for – a perfect clone to succeed him. But then he had his arrhythmia, about three years before he died, and suddenly his perspective changed. I think he realized that he was wrong, trying to make me into something I wasn't. I couldn't _be_ him, I could only be an imitation. That creative spark he had, he could never teach it to me, no matter how hard I tried. He needed to leave the company with somebody who had that spark, who could actually _innovate_, try new things, go in directions he'd never even thought of." He crunches the paper cup in his fist. "Not a yes-man sycophant."

Castiel frowns in confusion. "Wait. Are you saying he didn't want you to run the company?"

"You didn't know?" It's Dean's turn to be surprised. "It was all hush-hush at the time, but… I brought Sam back from Cambodia so he could train to be the new CEO."

Castiel blinks. "_What?_"

Dean laughs. "Oh my God, your face!"

"_Sam?_" Castiel exclaims. "Software, certainly, but – he's never had _any_ interest in business! We all – everyone thought you were taking over!"

"Nope." Dean shakes his head. "See, this is what I mean, Cas. Years in the making. Three years before Dad died, I find out he wants Sam as CEO. He doesn't want me, I'm just his lapdog. And the sick thing is –" He laughs, a little too loudly. "The sick thing is, I _agreed_ with him! _That's_ how deep it went!" He laughs and crumples the cup tighter. "I was so _obsessed_ with being the perfect copy of my dad that I even copied his disappointment in me! Isn't that insane?!"

"Dean," Castiel says.

"Sometimes, I think maybe that was the real test," Dean concludes. "Maybe he just wanted to see if I had the balls for the job. If I'd had the balls, I wouldn't have taken no for an answer. I would have fought him. But I just… accepted it. I was _happy_ to train Sam." He puts the crumpled cup in the cupholder. "I failed the test."

"Dean," Castiel says again. "You were never your father's lapdog. Not ever."

Dean looks at him.

"You were an excellent businessman and a dedicated employee. All of your teachers unequivocally regarded you as _gifted_. You were admired by your peers and respected by your competitors, and I –" He stops himself short, on the edge of saying more than he should.

He can feel Dean's eyes on him, waiting.

He reels himself in, rephrases, forces himself to choose his words. He speaks firmly and clearly. "I studied your company," Cas says. "I studied your father. I studied you. So believe me when say from an objective, unbiased standpoint: you were, in every way imaginable, _deserving_ to be his successor."

And Dean turns his face towards the window, and his mouth twists tightly to one side, and he clears his throat. He props his elbow on the window and rubs his hand across his mouth and leaves it there, his thumb pressed hard against his jaw, his fingers curled over his lips, as though physically holding himself silent. His nostrils flare.

Castiel glances at him, trying to assess the reaction.

"You said that was three years _before_ you left the company," Cas says. "What changed?"

Dean is silent for another long moment.

Then he takes a deep breath, blinks quickly, clears his throat again, and removes the hand from his mouth. "Oh, bunch of crap with Sam and my dad," he sighs. "Big surprise there. But I – I don't wanna talk about it right now."

Castiel decides not to press him on the matter. He's picked at enough wounds today.

"Ugh, going for the sixteen ounce coffee was a mistake," Dean mutters. "I gotta piss like a racehorse. Pull over, will ya?"

"We're nowhere near a rest stop," Cas says.

"I know that!" Dean replies indignantly. "I'm gonna take a leak on the side of the road, like_ God intended_. Now pull over."

"God intended for you to urinate on a public highway? I don't remember that from the Bible."

"It's Genesis, chapter one. And on the sixth day God said, 'Let Castiel shut his trap and pull over before I piss in his car!'"

"Oh, yes, I remember now. It was right before God banished Adam and Eve from Garden for ruining the upholstery –"

"_For fuck's sake Cas pull over!_"


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: _My harmonious hoglings. I am so sorry for taking so long to bring you a new chapter. It was a combination of factors - graduating law school, starting my bar review classes, realizing I have to actually PAY ATTENTION in my bar review classes instead of zoning out and daydreaming about fictional men staring into each other's eyes and ~learning to love~... It was all more than I was expecting. The other bad news is - this chapter is really short. I considered trying to double it up with the next section and make it extra _long_, but I was already so far behind I figured y'all would prefer a small installment now._ _Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter; believe me when I say that I seriously wanted to just write several more chapters of Dean and Cas being ridiculous in a car, but then I would have to abandon the premise entirely and rename this fic "Two Dudes, a Gun, and a Hangover." _

... _BRB, I need to go write that. _

_Just kidding! (Or am I?) ([I am.]) _

_Thank you for reading. Your reward for reviewing this chapter is a cassette tape that is just recordings of Dean drunkenly singing karaoke and occasionally interrupting the song to explain why "no, seriously, vegetarians don't make any fucking sense, okay?" _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Dean and Castiel finally arrive back at the mansion. They drive up past the gatehouse, down the long park lane lined with trees, up the gravel drive and right to the front door.

"Welp. This is my stop," Dean says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Catch ya later."

Castiel puts the car into park.

Dean frowns. "Why are you parking?"

Cas gives him a deprecating look. "I'm not dropping you off on the doorstep, Dean. We'll go inside and discuss expectations for the upcoming week."

"You haven't slept in, what, twenty four hours?" Dean demands. "And you want to do this now?"

Cas unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car.

Dean mutters curses under his breath and follows him.

The doorman lets them in, and as they cross the threshold from squinting summer heat to cool marble shade… it feels like it's been weeks since they left, eons, like there should be white sheets over all the furniture and dust along the bannisters. The place is pristine; the party from the day before is a distant memory. Every surface gleams.

Louise is waiting in the foyer, a clipboard in her hand and a dour look on her face.

Dean laughs and runs up to her, grabbing the small woman by the waist, picking her up and spinning her around before planting a loud kiss on her cheek. "Louise! Mi mujer más favorita del mundo!"

Louise squawks and scrubs the kiss off with her hand. "Do not _lift_ me!"

"Didja miss me?" Dean asks, grinning. "You musta been bored out of your gourd without me around to raise a little hell."

"You didn't notify me," Louise says stiffly. "You are supposed to notify me when you're going to travel."

"Aw, c'mon, you can't be pissed about that," Dean wheedles. "It was a spur of the moment thing, Lou, couldn't be helped. Next time I'll give you a heads up, I promise."

Louise's eyes dart around Dean's shoulder, to where Castiel stands by the door twenty feet away, and she takes Dean's hand and looks him in the eye. She lowers her voice. "I can be trusted," she says, squeezing his hand. "I am always discreet."

Some of the brightness fades from Dean's grin, and he squeezes her hand back. "Thank you. I know."

She gives him a slight nod.

Then she looks down at her clipboard and coughs. "Your accounting firm called while you were away – apparently there was an unexpected deposit in one of your Cayman accounts –"

"Sixty million dollars?" Dean guesses.

She looks up at him. "Yes."

So the Trust is legitimate – or at least, as legitimate as millions of dollars in liquid assets can make someone.

"Tell him to wire it back to whoever sent it," Dean instructs. "I was expecting it, but I don't want it." He pulls out his billfold and thumbs out a few hundred dollar bills and clips them onto her clipboard. "There. That's for givin' you the extra grays."

"I've already gone gray," Louise says primly.

"Nah, just silver," he says with a wink. "Silver vixen, Louise, that's what you are. Just like Meryl."

Louise gives him an affronted look, but he can tell it's mostly for show. She walks out of the foyer in a huff.

Dean turns back to Castiel and whistles through his teeth. "C'mon, Cassandra! I'm starving, let's go see what Jeff's got cooking."

But before Castiel can reply, the front door bursts open, sending the doorman skittering from his post.

Sam stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the bright sunshine, his shoulders high and tight and his face in full bitch-mode.

"Sammy!" Dean greets him. "Long time, no see! How the fuck did you know I was gonna be here?"

Sam walks toward him, his fists clenching and unclenching. "Castiel told me," he growls.

Dean scowls at Cas, standing back by the doorman. "Narc!"

Castiel looks completely unrepentant.

"Is this a joke to you, Dean?" Sam asks. "Is this just one big hilarious joke?"

"Well, you're sort of a walking punchline," Dean retorts, "but other than that, I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're on probation for a DUI, Dean! You have court dates! You have obligations! You can't just pick up and leave on a whim!" Sam rants. "And here you are jetting out of the state, without telling _anyone_ where you're going, you try to pull a fast one on the guy I hired to _protect _you –"

"And the Academy Award goes tooooooo _Samuel Winchester!"_ Dean interrupts, sarcastic and bright, a sharp smirk splitting across his face. "Best Performance of a Self-Serving Diatribe – wow, what an honor! Couldn't have gone to a more deserving guy! Honestly, I'm just flattered I was even nominated –"

"God, I am just so –" Sam raises his hands and clenches them. "I am so close to being _through_ with you, Dean!"

"Oh jeepers," Dean sighs in mock-remorse, snapping his fingers ruefully, "_through_ with me. I've sure done it now. What a shame it would be if you stopped meddling in every goddamn day of my goddamn life!"

An incredulous laugh bursts out of Sam. "You should be thanking your fucking stars for my meddling, you shithead! If it weren't for _me_ –" He spins away from Dean, gritting his teeth.

"What?" Dean shouts, sarcasm dropping away to unbridled fury. "If it weren't for you, _what_, Sammy? Tell me, where would I be, huh? Jail? Rehab? A morgue? Is that what gets you off? Do you just jerk it every night to the idea that I'm such a fucking _failure_ that I'd be _dead in a gutter_ without my _hero brother_ coming to my rescue?"

"Sure, Dean!" Sam shouts, spinning back, his face reddening and the muscles in his neck straining. "That's right, I'm just _living_ for the drunken phone calls and the court appearances and never knowing what the hell is gonna set you off! I love waking up in middle of the night _wondering_ if the past six years have been real or if it was all some horrible nightmare –"

"Oh Christ, give me a _break!_" Dean snarls. "This past six years have been your fucking _dream_, Sam! You finished law school, got married, got on city council, you're running for fucking _Congress_ –"

"Yeah!" Sam shouts. "No thanks to you! _Every step of the way_, you've done _everything you can_ to fuck me up!"

Dean bares his teeth. "I never did _anything_ to you! I never did _anything _but stay out of your way!"

"I can't _believe_ –" Sam runs a hand through his hair, his eyes bugging, huffing angry breaths. "I can't fucking believe you. After all the guilt you've laid at my feet, after all the manipulation and the blame and _torpedoing_ your own life just to _spite_ me –"

"MY LIFE has NOTHING TO DO with you!" Dean bellows. "You made that _crystal fucking clear _a long time ago –"

Sam's eyes bug even wider. "This?! Again?! You could have _had_ the company, Dean! And you THREW IT AWAY!"

Dean drops his voice to a harsh, dangerous growl. "I didn't throw it away. It was never mine to begin with."

And Sam charges forward and grabs him by the shoulders. "He's _DEAD!_" he shouts in Dean's face, shaking him. "Do you _understand that?_ He's gone! You don't owe him _anything_ anymore!"

And Dean wrenches back his right fist,

and swings it into Sam's cheekbone.

The fight devolves from there.

Castiel steps forward as the two of them swing and scuffle with each other, Dean shoving Sam to the floor and Sam yanking his legs out from under him, Sam getting the upper hand momentarily and then Dean _pummeling_ into his ribs, and Sam wheezing and punching back, bloodying Dean's nose and clocking him in the eye, and Castiel steps in and does his best to physically separate them, yanking them apart and dragging Dean away even as he fights him off.

Sam pushes himself up from the floor, red swelling lumps on his cheek and jaw, face glistening, and Dean pants to regain his breath, and that's when he realizes –

Sam is _crying_.

Everything hot and furious inside Dean twists tightly inward, and rips jaggedly in his gut.

"Fuck you," Sam rasps. He stands up slowly, painfully, wipes his eyes with one hand. "I'm done."

Dean steps forward, and Castiel's hand presses in warning against his chest.

"Sam," Dean says.

Sam walks away and doesn't look back.

"Sam!"

Sam walks out the door.

….


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: _Readers. Romans. Countrymen. I am so, so sorry for the delay in getting this chapter to you. Apologies are becoming my personal theme song, apparently. Honestly, updates are probably going to continue to be sluggish until after I take the bar at the end of July, but I WILL continue updating. This chapter is brought to you by several cups of English breakfast tea and a late-night reheated bowl of Spanish rice that I made (and also burnt). Remember: "it's not dinner if it's not Burnt Rice!"™ And as always, all typos and mistakes of grammar are sponsored by Couchcarrotbrain®. "All couch, no carrot, brain. Brain? What brain? Oh, the brain in the name. I see. I forgot about that. What was I saying? Why am I holding this sock?" _

_Please review. _

_P.S. A couple chapters ago I made a timeline error when I had Dean tell Cas that the whole "Finding out Dad wanted Sam for CEO/ retrieving Sam from Cambodia" business happened two years before John died. It was actually three years. I've since fixed it in previous chapters, but I just wanted to let you know in case you noticed and went back later to check the dates and thought maybe you'd gone insane and hallucinated the whole thing. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Sam peels out of Dean's gravel driveway and drives straight towards home, only 15 minutes away when traffic is light. He's making record time today, catching every light, speeding down the winding road by the lakeside, his hands death-gripped on the steering wheel and his foot heavy on the gas, and he makes it to the garage in 12 minutes, and he backs into his parking spot in one smooth maneuver and yanks up the parking brake and turns off the car.

He sits there, keys still in the ignition.

He wants to drive back.

His head buzzes as he realizes it, realizes that he wants to go back and find Dean and throttle him until he apologizes and takes back everything he's ever done and then Sam wants to be able to say _it's okay, I forgive you, I'll always forgive you_ and hug him back into sanity with the sheer force of his will.

But that's not what's going to happen. That's not how it would play out.

Instead, it would be another fist to the face, seeing stars, Dean sneering down at him with eyes glittering in contempt. That's what waits for him if he goes back now. That's all that's left for Sam.

And Sam crosses his arms over the steering wheel, and rests his forehead there, and he cries. He lets himself cry in that way he can never cry except when he's totally alone – great wracking sobs, wrenched out like someone is reaching down his throat and _yanking _them out of his lungs. He sits in his car and cries until he can't cry anymore.

….

**Twenty six years ago**

"I'm going to be a veterinarian when I grow up," Sammy tells Dean on the bus home.

"No you're not," Dean says. "You're gonna work at the company with me and Dad."

"I don't wanna do computers anymore," Sammy argues. "I don't wanna work for Dad. I wanna work with the animals and take care of dogs and cats and hampsters and stuff."

Dean shifts his backpack in his lap and sighs. "You're too young to know what you're gonna be," he says. "In a week, you're gonna tell me you wanna be a figure skater."

"Why can't I be a figure skater?" Sammy asks. Sammy has a picture of a figure skater on the wall next to his bed, because he saw one on TV once who spun so fast and so hard that she _flew_ in the air, and it was so cool.

"Figure skating is for _girls_," Dean scoffs. "It's like ballerinas on ice." Then he looks at Sammy appraisingly. "You know what? You're right. You go ahead and be figure skater. That seems _right_ up your alley."

Sammy socks him in the arm and says, "I'm not a _girl_."

"Oh yeah? Then how come you _hit _like a girl?"

Sammy socks him harder, and is rewarded by a momentary wince. Dean quickly recovers though, and he snorts. "I could barely even feel that."

Sammy knows he's lying, and that's good enough. He settles into his seat with satisfaction, his legs dangling and kicking against the seat in front of him.

Dean looks out the window. He always gets the window seat, because the oldest always gets the window seat.

"You're gonna see," Dean says. "One day, it's gonna be you and me and Dad at the company, and we're gonna get to go to work with Dad, and then when he retires, it'll be just you and me." He grins at Sammy. "You and me, running a _whole company_, in charge of _everyone!_ It's gonna be awesome. And we'll get _paid_ _money_ to do it!"

Sammy had forgotten that he wouldn't be working for Dad forever. Running the computer company with Dean – now that sounded so cool, getting to be the bosses, and then they would get paid a bunch and they could buy two speedboats and they could race each other at the lake!

"How much money?" Sammy asks.

Dean grins wider. "Hundreds. _Hundreds_ of dollars, Sammy!"

Sammy squinches his face at Dean and considers.

"How much is a speedboat?" he asks.

Dean shrugs. "I dunno. Probably like… eighty bucks."

"Okay," Sammy says. "Let's do it!"

….

**Sixteen years ago**

When Sam walks back into the DMV waiting area, he keeps his hands tucked into his pockets, his head tilted down so his bangs fall into his eyes.

Dean stands up from the plastic chair, his face anxious. "How'd it go?"

Sam sighs, and slumps his shoulders a little.

"Hey," Dean says, "you can always –"

"I passed!" Sam bursts out, grinning. He pulls the temporary paper license out of his pocket. "I'm officially a driver!"

"You little prick!" Dean accuses, punching him in the shoulder but grinning all the same. "Good work, numbnuts, you're almost a man now. All we have to do is get you _laid…_"

Sam turns red and shoves the license back in his pocket. "Shut up! There are _people_ around, man!"

"C'mon," Dean says with a jerk of his head, "I got your birthday present outside."

They walk out the glass doors and into the sunshine. Waiting in the parking lot, sitting next to the car they arrived in, is a sleek shiny brand-new black Ferrari convertible with a big white bow tied around it.

Sam stares.

"It's your first car, so it's kind of a beater," Dean quips, "but if you take _really_ _good_ _care_ of it, we'll talk about trading it in for something a little more modern." He tosses Sam the keys.

Sam fumbles the keys and clutches them in both hands, dumbfounded. Then he walks up and runs a hand along the smooth, polished hood, unable to stop gaping. "What were you gonna do if I didn't pass?!"

Dean smiles at him. "I knew you'd pass."

"How did you even get it here?!"

"I had the dealership deliver it."

"How much did this cost?!"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Sammy," he says. "We are _rich_. Rich as _balls_. Just because Dad keeps the purse strings tight doesn't mean we're _actually_ middle class."

"Yeah, but –" Sam runs his hand through his hair and put his hands on his hips. "A Ferrari, Dean! There's no way he gave you that much just to spend on _me_."

And if he's not mistaken, a light flush rises along Dean's cheeks. "I saved up," Dean says. "Special occasion. Now shut up and thank me for being so awesome."

Sam looks at him, and he feels the embarrassment too – embarrassing to be this happy, this touched, embarrassing to be so pleased that your big brother would set aside money for months _just for you_ – but he can't help smiling so wide it hurts.

"Thanks," he says. "This is awesome."

Dean walks past him to get to his own car, and kicks him in the back of the leg and shoulder-checks him. "If you crash it, I'll kick your ass," he warns.

"I'd like to see you try," Sam scoffs.

"You kidding me? I could snap your spindly arms like dry spaghetti!"

"Whatever, man, I'll just keep them out of your reach then –"

"Oh, I'm gonna fuckin' _kill _you, Jack Skellington!"

….

**Six years ago**

When Sam first went into his father's hospital room, he didn't think it was possible to get angry. He was still reeling from the stress of the surgery, sitting and waiting to hear that Dad was okay, and he genuinely just wanted to see him with his own eyes and see that he was alright. And when he entered the room – the best hospital room that money could buy, with soft lighting and no other occupants, but still a _hospital_, still smelling of antiseptic over a lingering scent of sterile death, still crowded with machines and monitors and wires and tubes all plugged into his father like he is a piece of the machine now, a component, an animatronic puppet who can be turned off with the flick of a switch – when Sam entered that room, he was humbled. It was _humbling_ to see his father like this: tired, wan, drooping. Weak. A stranger.

But as soon as Dad starts to speak, Sam can feel it simmering.

"Your brother went to get some grub and coffee," Dad says, rubbing his shadowed eyes. "I guess I dozed off. Think I need some coffee myself…"

"You need to _rest,_" Sam urges. "Sleep as much as you can."

Dad sighs and drops his hand. "I can't _wait_ until press gets wind of this. Our stock is going to dive. Can't be helped. We just need to make sure that it comes back _up_, which is only going to–"

"_Dad_," Sam interrupts, "can you just – stop, for a minute?" He can't help an incredulous laugh, bitter in his own ears. "You need – you need to just _stop_ worrying about work right now. You nearly lost your life. That is way more important than –"

"The company _is_ my life!" Dad growls. "Without it, I have nothing."

And it crackles inside of Sam's ribcage, scraping and throwing sparks like tinder on flint. "Oh yeah?" he challenges. "So Dean and I, we're nothing. We're _nothing_ to you."

It must be all the medications, but John actually recoils, recoils as though Sam hit him. He's never reacted that strongly, not ever. "That's not what I said," he breathes.

"Yes, you _did_," Sam fires back. "Dean and I have been begging you, _begging_ you to take it easier and retire, and you just can't let go. The doctors barely signed off on light desk work and you were back at the grindstone, pulling twelve hour days!" He can feel his eyes stinging, his breath coming short. "You are literally working yourself _to death,_ Dad, you're going to kill yourself going like this, and it's like you don't even care! What is more important to you, your job or your sons? You don't even care that Dean and I – Dean and I need–"

He turns away from his father and presses his palm into his eye socket, trying to reclaim his anger and keep from falling into pieces.

"Sam," Dad says, his voice low.

And Sam's breath hiccups in his chest and his bites his teeth, can't turn back around, can't turn back around when he's blinking so hard.

"I'm sorry," Dad says.

For the first time.

For the first time in as long as Sam can remember, Dad is actually _apologizing_.

Slowly he turns back around.

Dad is watery-eyed, another strange sight. He seems smaller in his hospital gown, vulnerable in a way that Sam has never seen before. "I know I haven't… been there for you boys, the way I should," he says softly. "But it was all… the company, it was your mother's vision, her brainchild, and I thought, somehow…" He sucks in a pained breath. "I did it for you boys. All of this was supposed to be your legacy."

"I didn't want a _legacy_," Sam chokes. "I wanted a _dad_."

John's chin trembles. "It's all I've got to offer," he whispers. "Can't you just take it?"

Sam's words choke in his mouth.

He sits down at his father's bedside, stricken.

"Dad," he says softly, "It's not too late. This is a second chance, Dad, a chance to –"

Footsteps in the doorway. "Well, the cafeteria coffee is crap, but at least it's…" Dean trails off.

John smiles and squints. "This may be the painkillers talking, but I could've sworn you were wearing a different shirt when you left."

Dean walks to his bedside, his eyes between Sam and Dad. "Yeah," he says distractedly, "I had Louise bring me some more comfortable clothes." He sets down his coffee and fixes his gaze on Sam. "Can I grab you for a second?"

Sam stands up. "Of course, what is it?"

John snorts. "He wants to talk about me."

Dean glares at him and walks out of the room.

Sam follows.

Dean walks halfway down the hall, down to a visitor waiting area with big brightly lit fish tanks and cheaply upholstered tan sofas, before he spins around and addresses Sam. "The doctors said it's work," he blurts. "They said work is too much stress for him. He has to retire."

"I know," Sam says. "I was just telling him that he needs to step back and focus on his health."

Dean paces by the fish tank and takes a deep breath. He plants himself in front of Sam. "You have to do it," he says. "You have to take over the company."

Sam gapes at him. "What? Dean, no. That's been off the table for years!"

"Not to Dad, it hasn't," Dean argues. "You have to do it, Sam, it's the _only_ way he's gonna retire. That's clear now. You're the only one he trusts –"

"I _explained_ it to him," Sam interrupts, fury bubbling up in his veins, betrayal stinging in his eyes. "I explained it all! I thought he understood, he _said_ he understood that I have my own life! I can't believe –"

"Look, you can be angry about this all you want, but that doesn't _change_ anything!" Dean steps closer, his voice tight. "Dad _has_ to retire. He has to leave the company to someone, and that someone should be you. You _know_ how to do this, Sam –"

"I can't just drop everything, Dean!" Sam exclaims. "I just finished my second year of law school! After fighting tooth and nail to carve out my own fucking _tiny space in the world_ that belongs to me, just me and nobody else – I'm not gonna give that up just because Dad's being an idiot! I have a life, Dean, I have _career goals_ that have nothing to do with the company –"

Dean grits his teeth. "You don't have to do it forever!"

"Until _when_, then?" Sam demands. "When is Dad gonna be satisfied that I've done my due diligence? Five years? Ten? Twenty? Or maybe you want me to stay on until he dies, you know, just to give him the peace of mind –"

"I don't know!" Dean shouts. "I don't know, Sam, all I know is that I've tried, I've tried and I'm not good enough, and if you don't do this he's going to _die_, Sam, he is going to work himself to death so can you just _please do this?!_"

Sam stares at him. "What are you talking about? What do you mean you've tried?"

Dean's eyes grow shinier, and his breath comes faster. "He doesn't want me to take over, Sam. He wants _you_. And I need you to do this Sammy, please, for me, I know you won't do it for Dad but can you please do this for me. I will never ask _anything_ of you ever again, as long as I live." His mouth quivers at the corners. "Please. I'm begging you."

Sam gazes at him with his lungs squeezed tight, no air in his chest, his heart thudding against his sternum like it's trapped in a jar.

Working at the company. Stepping into Dad's shoes. Long days, long nights, short weekends. Getting to direct the development of software _around the world_. Never having a moment to breathe. Focusing on profit margins, on dividends, on stocks and exchanges. Getting to work alongside Dean. Giving up the law. Giving up his political principles. Giving up everything he's worked for over the last five years. Giving up everything that set him apart from his father. Giving up everything that made him unique. Giving up everything that made him believe that he could be different, that he didn't have to end up like Dad, that he didn't have to succumb to destiny, that he had agency, that he had a right to _choose_ who he was and what he would become.

"I can't," Sam says softly. "I _won't_."

Dean sucks in a ragged breath between his teeth and looks away, bright shining eyes wavering on tears. "What am I supposed to do, Sammy?"

"I don't know." Sam swallows thickly. "All I know is, I can't be a part of it. I – I can't. This is not my problem to fix."

And then he turns and walks back to his father's room, and he walks to his father's bedside, and John must have seen the look on his face because Sam can see the old fire returning to his eyes, that challenging fire that willed you into submission, the same fire that lit something inside of Sam _every damn time_ that made him shove back just as hard as he was pressed, and he shouts at his father, "You are _destroying_ this family! Is that what you want?! You are _destroying_ us, Dad! How _could you?!_"

And John flinches unexpectedly, those drugs again, it must be, and he says "Sammy –"

"_Don't call me Sammy!_" he roars, his voice breaking at the last second.

Two nurses rush in and try to intervene, but Sam shoves them off, hot tears spilling down his face, and he shouts, "I actually thought you gave a shit about me, as a person, about what I _wanted_, how I _feel_, and you never did, did you? You never actually cared about any of that!"

John moves as though to get up, his eyes fixed on Sam's.

Dean rushes in. "What's going on? Sam, what's going on?!"

Then a uniformed security guard enters the room, and Sam throws his hands up in the air. "I'm leaving! I'm leaving!"

He walks quickly out the door, followed closely by the guard, and goes down the elevator and leaves the hospital.

It is the last time Sam sees his father alive.

….

….

**Today**

Dean sits on a stool by the kitchen island, his head tipped to stem the bleeding from his nose. "I fucked up," he groans to himself. "I fucked up…"

Castiel hands him a plastic baggie full of ice and two paper towels.

Dean rips off sections of paper, wads them up and gingerly sticks them up his nose with a wince. Then he holds the ice to his swelling eye. "Do you think he broke my nose?" he asks, but with the paper towels clogging him up, it comes out more like, "Do you ding he brogue by doze?"

Castiel examines his face critically, tilting Dean's chin forward with his thumb and forefinger. "No."

Dean closes his good right eye and presses the ice harder into his left. "I'm such a shitbag," he sighs.

"You're not a shitbag," Castiel says. "You were just _acting_ like a shitbag."

"Hey, he started it!" Dean barks, pivoting into defensive mode as though on instinct. "You saw him, how he got all up in my face!"

Castiel stares at him sternly. "All of the things you said to me, out in the desert?" he says. "Those are the things you should have been telling Sam. Not mocking him for correctly suspecting that you were about to throw yourself in harm's way."

"Oh, he didn't suspect jack shit," Dean sneers. "He just has this – this _obsession_ with playing the white knight, ever since he threw me under the bus when Dad died. You heard him talking, he thinks everything I do is to _spite_ him!"

"You haven't done much to correct him," Castiel notes. "As soon as he brought up spite, you brought up past grievances."

"Well. There's a little spite," Dean admits. "But it's… incidental. I take it where I can get it. I don't put it in my fuckin' day planner."

Castiel sits down on the stool next to him, and reaches over and pulls Dean's hand with the ice away from his eye. "Let it rest for a few minutes."

They sit in silence. Dean is clearly unsure where to look, and after several instance of unintentional eye contact, he fixes his eyes on a section of countertop and avoids Castiel's gaze.

Castiel watches him. "Is it really that difficult for you to see that you're hurting Sam?"

"How can I possibly hurt him?" Dean blurts, eyes darting up. "Hurt him, shit, I can't even _touch_ him! I have nothing and he has _everything_, Cas, everything!"

"He doesn't have you," Castiel says softly.

Dean looks away again, and he grabs the ice and clenches it in his hand. He stands up, walks over to the liquor cabinet, and pulls out a bottle of scotch.

"Less talking, more drinking," he orders, grabbing two glasses and setting them on the island. "What'll it be?"

"I'm not drinking," Cas says.

Dean shrugs. "More for me, then!" He throws back a shot's worth and coughs. "In about an hour I'll be buzzed enough to call him and apologize."

"He doesn't want a drunken apology," Castiel says, frowning.

"Well, sucks for him 'cause that's what he's getting," Dean retorts. "Beggars can't be choosers!"

"I don't think you should drink right now," Castiel says.

"S'fine, I'm just about to go to bed," Dean assures him. "Four more shots or so and I'll be snug as a bug."

At that moment, Miguel walks into the kitchen. He stops and takes one look at the two men – Dean, with his freshly bloodied face, and Castiel, with his scabbed lip and torn jacket – and his face switches instantly into a threatening glower. "Did you do this this to him?!" he demands, striding toward Castiel.

"Relax," Dean says, "Constantine had nothing to do with it." Then he does his best to approximate a cocky smirk with his swollen face. "I can take care of myself, Miguelito. Don't you worry your pretty little head."

Castiel is slightly wounded by Miguel's assumption that he would needlessly injure Dean, but he recognizes the logic in it. Still, he lets some of his disappointment show in his eyes.

Miguel flushes and clears his throat. "Oh. My mistake. Sorry. I just – sorry."

"Don't apologize!" Dean reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. "Here at Winchester Incorporated, we reward customer loyalty." He takes a few hundred dollar bills and folds them, handing the fold to Miguel.

Miguel looks confused.

"Take the money!" Dean urges. "C'mon, it's a tip! Miguel. Migueeeeel. Take the money."

Warily, Miguel takes it. "I still have your bracelet," he says. "If you want it back."

Dean pointedly doesn't look at Castiel. "Course."

Jeff walks into the kitchen and his eyebrows nearly rocket off his face. "What the hell happened to you two?"

"Me," Dean sighs.

"He punched Sam," Castiel clarifies. "I punched a police officer."

Dean pours himself another shot and waves Jeff toward the island. "C'mon, rustle up some grub, we're starving." He tosses another few hundred on the countertop. "Consider this an advance. You get the rest when I have some form of hot dead animal carcass sitting in front of me."

Jeff looks at him strangely, but he walks over and gets cooking.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: _Okay, so first off, I love you all, and unfortunately I didn't have the chance to respond to your lovely reviews last chapter. Believe me, I read and appreciated them all, but all my spare time went into getting this chapter completed! I've gotten several different comments from people about Sam running Winchester Incorporated, and I want to clear it up: Sam is NOT currently running the company. So sorry I didn't make that clear! Zach Rutger is the current CEO. He went to Sam's office to consult on a project because Sam is still around town, but Sam is not with the company. He's on the city council and (though this hasn't been mentioned at all yet) was working with legal aid/ pro bono stuff until he started running for Congress._

_Also, to those of you who are enjoying the brother stuff: yay! I'm glad you like it! If you are exasperated because you are here for MAN ON MAN LOVIN' TIMES, not Platonic-Ass Family Bullshit, I promise, more gayness is coming soon. This is a particularly Sam-heavy chunk but the next several chapters will focus on Dean and Cas, I swear! _

_Anyway. Here's the chapter. Enjoy!_

* * *

**June, six years ago**

Dean doesn't say a word to him at the funeral.

Sam is still strangely numb from Dad's death. He doesn't feel pain so much as he feels a dull constant weight pressing down on him. In a church, once, in South America, Sam saw a painting of Jesus carrying his cross, this great beam of wood slung over his bowed shoulders, pinching his spine, dragging in the mud behind him, and Jesus's neck was crooked awkwardly around it and his knees were bent. He was dragging his punishment behind him, and it was too heavy for him to carry.

Sam knows why Dean won't talk to him.

The doctors said Sam had nothing to do with it. It was an embolism – a blood clot from the surgery that shook loose when he stood up and killed him. It wasn't the stress of yelling that did it. It wasn't the pumping of his anger though his veins. It would have happened even if Sam and Dad hadn't been fighting just moments before.

But what they don't understand is that Dad stood up to go after _Sam._

Just seconds after Sam shouted at his father and accused him of destroying the family and stormed out of his room, John stood up to go after him, and then he collapsed back down. And Dean was there. Dean watched him die.

Sam knows why Dean won't talk to him.

But they have business to attend to. Sam needs Dean to be here, to sort things out. There are lawyers, and accountants, and relatives, and employees, all clamoring for answers. Dad never told the board about his intentions regarding Sam, and as far as they're considered, Dean is the obvious choice for the new CEO. It's the only thing that relieves Sam in this whole ugly mess – somehow, it worked out right for Dean. He wouldn't have been happy working under Sam anyway. Sam wouldn't have been happy working above him. Now they can both be…

Well, not happy. Not yet. Happy is a long way off.

The funeral is small and short. Dad apparently left detailed instructions, and he wanted it small and short. The company will hold a more public memorial later. Sam does not plan to appear.

Dean disappears after the funeral, vanishing among the nondescript black cars just beyond the fresh-cut cemetery lawn. Sam stares at the blue empty horizon of parking lot and feels as though his knees are about to give way.

He drives to Dean's apartment. He can't live like this, not right now not when everything is so black and white and gray and unbearable. They need to talk. He needs to talk.

The doorman, Vic, says, "You just missed him."

"That's fine, I'll wait for him to get back," Sam replies. "I've got a key."

Vic gives him a strange look, but lets him through. "You might be waiting awhile."

Sam presses the elevator button five times. He knows it doesn't make a difference, but he can't stop.

When he lets himself in, the apartment is empty. _Empty_. All of Dean's things have been packed up and taken away except the furniture. The counters are shining clean and the carpet is striped with vacuum lines, and there is a handwritten note sitting on the kitchen table.

_Sorry for everything. Gotta go_

No signature.

And now, Sam is buckling under the weight of it, the guilt and the look in Dean's eyes when he begged Sam to please, please just do this to save Dad's life, do it for me, Sam, please, and the way Dean wouldn't look at him as they lowered Dad's casket into the ground, because it was the only real thing Dean ever asked of him and Sam failed him.

…..

Sam lets Dean escape.

He wants to go after Dean, in the first week. It turns out that Dean has flown out to the Caribbean and is living out of a hotel. Sam calls and leaves message after message, but Dean doesn't pick up. Sam wants to chase him down. But he talks it over with his girlfriend, and she reminds him about how he felt when he ran away to Brazil, how grateful and relieved he was when Dad and Dean didn't follow. How he needed the space to come to grips with things and find himself.

He leaves Dean his space.

In the meantime, the board of directors is baffled by Dean going AWOL and the hunt for a replacement CEO begins in earnest, and Dean's department is reshuffled to cover the loss. The board appoints Zach Rutger as interim CEO. The man is not particularly charismatic, more smarm than charm, but he has been with the company longer than almost anyone and he knows how to run a business. Sam leaves Dean a message about this too, telling him that he could still have the company if he wanted it. _They'd understand you leaving_, Sam explains. _They still really want _you, Sam tells the voicemail inbox. _Dean, I know you think Dad didn't… Didn't want you to take over. But the _board_ wants you. That's all that matters. And even if you don't want to run the place, the company still needs you. Acquisitions looks like a tornado hit it. You still have a job here. Just come home. _

About two months in, Dean starts making the tabloids.

He's partying a lot, flying out from the islands to make appearances in London, Paris, Athens, Buenos Aires. And everywhere he goes, he leave a trail of broken bottles and prostitutes. He becomes known for trying to punch photographers. He becomes known for surprise appearances at prestigious clubs. He becomes known for being everybody's best friend. Every excess that he ever denied himself on his way up the corporate ladder, he indulges in.

Sam has people keeping an eye on him, and they say he's okay. Sam wants to believe them.

He calls Dean once, but it goes straight to the machine.

….

Six months in. December. That's when Dean finally calls him back.

Sam sees the name on the screen and his heart jumps into mouth, beating hard against his tongue. He answers the phone. "Hello?"

Dean hangs up.

It turns out that Dean doesn't really want to talk to Sam. He just wants to leave messages. So he starts calling again and again and whenever Sam answers, he hangs up. When Sam lets it ring, he talks. Sam develops a Pavlovian response to the robotic female operator of his voicemail, his pulse rising uncomfortably the second she says, _You have new messages._

"You know what, Sam?" Dean says, his voice slurred and thick. "Fuck – fuck you and the horse you rode in on, alright? I thought you gave a shit about me and you _don't_, so just go fuck yourself. Fuck you. Fuck you right in your stuuuupid face."

_New_ _message_.

"Sammy, 'm sorry. 'M sorry for… what I said. I was drunk." Loose laughter. "Still drunk. Stillllll drunk. Little high. But anyway…" Twenty seconds of silence. "Sam, do you miss Dad? I miss him. I hate him and I miss him like hell."

_New_ _message_.

"I wasn' gonna hang up this time! Swear! But anyway you can go to hell. I'm not gonna feel guilty about it, okay Sammy? FUCK YOU, DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" The sound of the phone being slammed repeatedly on a countertop.

And so on.

Sam listens to the messages again and again, a codebreaker tapping into an enemy line, hunting for patterns in every syllable, searching for meaning until the words become meaningless.

A month later, Dean finally comes home.

…..

**June, five years ago**

Sam's law school graduation. Surprisingly, Dean wants to come. After everything, he actually wants to come, and Sam wonders if maybe this is the beginning of a fresh start. Sam's girlfriend is out of town, so she won't meet Dean, thank God. He's not ready to Venn diagram those particular areas of his life just yet.

The ceremony is gratifyingly brief. It's strange, being reminded that what he's done is actually an accomplishment. It's not a betrayal. It's not a cop-out. It's an accomplishment, and Sam is allowed to be proud.

As he waits to be called up on stage, Sam flips to the back of his program. There's a list of donors to the law school, ranked by the size of their gifts. At the top, in the "$1,000,000 +" category, is _John Winchester_.

Sam blinks quickly, and his fingertips tingle on the sharp edge of the paper.

He didn't know.

There's so much he didn't know.

After the ceremony, the audience members and graduates are funneled out to an air conditioned lobby. The linen and velvet robe hangs heavy on Sam, and the hood tugs awkwardly at his neck. He looks for Dean among the mass of chattering bodies, and finally spots him at the far end of the room, snagging cookies from a reception table. Sam serpentines his way over.

Dean finally catches sight of him and looks up, an entire cookie shoved in his mouth. "Fam!" he exclaims. "Fuh graguate!" His suit jacket doesn't really match his baggy t-shirt and jeans, but he doesn't look too out of place in the motley crowd.

"Thanks for coming," Sam says.

Dean swallows and grins. "I'm really just here for the food." He glances around at the other families. "Guess I shoulda got you balloons or something…" His face is strangely shiny and bright, as though he's over-warm, and his smile is unusually wide, and when he leans in toward Sam, the sour tang on his breath is overpowering. "Ah, well. I'll make a note for your next graduation. What's next, med school?"

Sam wrinkles his nose. "Dude, you smell like Kesha."

"Oh, that's just a lil sum'n sum'n I brought with me." Dean reaches into his jacket and slips the shiny edge of a flask out of his breast pocket. "Say hello to my little friend…" And he chuckles to himself.

The pieces click together. "You're _drunk_," Sam says incredulously.

"Graduations are boring," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "So sue me. I'm tryin' to be supportive!"

Sam glares at him. "You got drunk at my graduation? Christ, I can't take you anywhere. We're in public!"

"SO?" Dean demands too loudly. "It's not like public intoxication is a _crime_, Sammy." He grins with his own cleverness.

Sam feels taut, ready to snap. "Cut it out. It's not funny. You need to get your act together, Dean."

Dean's eyes sharpen, and his mouth twists slightly. He's still smiling, but there's an edge to it, a jutting of the jaw. "C'mon, Sammy. I thought we had an understanding."

Sam frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"You know…" Dean gestures around the auditorium. "You do what makes _you_ happy." He gestures to his breast pocket. "I do what makes _me_ happy." He gives Sam a long, steady look.  
"And that's all we really owe each other, right?"

Sam feels burning humiliation creeping up the back of his neck.

So that's what this was about. That's why he came. Revenge. A chance to dig at Sam one more time for walking away.

He's so angry at himself for letting it hurt him this much.

"Whatever," Sam says. "Are you done here?"

Dean's eyes flash, and then he gives a smirk. "Yeah, I gotta run. Got a date with a ballerina and a burlesque dancer. Two guesses which one's the curvy one."

"I really couldn't give a shit," Sam says.

He leaves Dean and pulls off his robe as he pushes his way out of the lobby.

…

**August, three years ago**

Sam knows that asking Dean to be his best man was a gamble.

Things have been better between them the last few months, less fraught, less tense. The more Sam thought about it the more wanted to make the gesture. Maybe it could be a first step towards putting bygones behind them. There's an eighty percent chance Dean'll be drunk, but Sam has made his peace with that. There's a thirty percent chance he won't even show up, which would bruise Sam a lot more.

So when Dean is early, actually _early_ to the ceremony, only vaguely smells of booze and breath mints, and is wearing an actual fitted suit in the right colors, Sam takes it as a sign from the universe that today, for once, Sam might actually have luck on his side. After everyone else leaves to take their places in the hall, Sam finishes getting ready and slips out of his dressing room.

Yes, it's bad luck to see the bride in her wedding dress before she comes down the aisle, but Sam is armed with his early victory. The universe is dealing in his favor. He wants to peek in on her and kiss her quickly and feel her hands trembling with nerves like his are. He sneaks down the cool dark corridor to her dressing room door, which is already ajar, and hesitates behind the doorframe. He straightens his tux and grins in anticipation.

"You need to leave," he hears her say to someone inside.

And to Sam's shock, he hears Dean's voice growl back. "You're nothin' but a bottle-blonde gold-digging skank. Now walk. _Away_."

It takes a moment for Sam to process what is happening.

Then it hits him, and every ounce of him instantly coils up and he slams the door open, rage surging through his veins. "What the fuck are you doing?" he demands.

The bride-to-be is flushed with anger, high points of red on her cheeks. The best man is flushed too, his eyes bloodshot and pupils blown wide. "She's after your money!" Dean accuses. "Trust me, Sam, I'm saving you a shitload in alimony –"

Sam grabs him and drags him out of the dressing room by the lapel, shoving him into the hallway. "Get out of my wedding," he snarls.

Dean stumbles to regain his balance. "Sam –"

Sam is breathing fast, and his temples throb. "I can't believe you would do this to me," he spits. "On my _wedding day_. Get out."

Dean's face hardens. "I haven't _done_ anything," he snaps back. "Get your head out of your ass, Sam. I didn't fucking kidnap her! The choice is hers, all I did was talk."

"GET OUT!" Sam shouts, shoving him toward the exit.

Dean stumbles again, and he lowers his head, and he pushes the door open and leaves.

It's not until the ceremony starts that Sam realizes that Dean still has the rings. He whispers to his groomsmen, and they lend their own wedding rings momentarily.

Sam plays it off as a goofy mistake with an awkward chuckle, and his guests chuckle with him. As he slides an overlarge plain silver band on her finger, only Ruby knows that Dean has stolen this moment from them.

…..

**Now**

Sam sits in his car, his jaw throbbing and his throat burning. Every bruise, every ache feels like it's pulsing in unison, one resounding message spelled out in a million cuts sliced into him over the last six years:

This is it. No more.

Dean keeps pushing him away. It's time Sam stopped dragging him back in.

He wipes his eyes and gets out of the car,

and locks the door behind him.

...

...

**Meanwhile, at the Winchester Mansion**

Dean and Castiel retreat to the TV room after Jeff shoos them away from the island, and they watch a baseball game waiting for him to finish cooking. Dean continues working on his bottle of scotch, chugging it determinedly like it's cheap whiskey, trying to get buzzed enough to forget the image of Sam's back as he walked out the door. Castiel doesn't say anything, but Dean notices him noticing and drinks a little more pointedly. A short time later, Jeff slides their plates onto the coffee table in front of them. It's grilled cheese sandwiches, cut diagonally, each with a bowl of tomato soup on the side.

Dean balks. "This is not enough meat," he barks. "I paid you for meat!"

"I know what you _ordered_," Jeff retorts. "But what you _need_ right now is a grilled cheese."

Dean narrows his eyes at him, sets down his ice pack, and leans in. "I could fire you, right here, right now," he threatens. "I got a million guys lining up to take your spot."

Jeff rolls his eyes. "Eat your sandwich, Dean."

Muttering under his breath about contracts and termination clauses, Dean picks up half of the sandwich and takes a large angry bite.

Then his chewing slows. His hand hovers there with the sandwich next to his mouth, and he swallows, and his eyes actually well up.

It's a grilled cheese sandwich. The bread is perfectly crisped and buttery on the outside with just enough chewiness to give it substance, and the cheddar cheese inside is gooey and warm and tangy on the tongue, and it tastes like a Saturday afternoon at the kitchen table when your legs were still short enough to dangle and you were young enough to be hugged tight for no reason except that you were loved.

"Oh my God," Dean whispers. "Jeff, marry me."

Jeff shakes his head and heads back toward the kitchen.

"I'm serious!" Dean exclaims. "I will make an honest man out of you, Jeffrey!" He dunks the sandwich in the soup, and takes another large bite and grunts in satisfaction. "Never leave me," he calls with a full mouth. "You complete me."

"I know," Jeff calls back.

…

After lunch, Dean heads back to his room, and Castiel follows him in.

Dean groans. "Oh, come on, you really wanna talk shop now?" He brought the bottle of scotch with him, and he's halfway to buzzed. "I'm _tired_, Cas, I need some goddamn rest!" He shucks off his dust-coated blazer and flops backward onto his unmade bed.

Cas hesitates before he speaks, uncertain of how honest he should be. "I agree that we should discuss everything later, but… I don't want to leave you alone right now."

"So what, I'm on suicide watch?" Dean asks sarcastically. "You just gonna stand there and watch me sleep all fuckin' day?"

"No," Castiel answers. "I'm going to sit." And he shoves a pile of dirty laundry off a nearby armchair and pulls it over by the bed.

Dean sits up. "Are you serious?"

Castiel sits in the chair and clasps his hands.

Dean scowls and leans forward. "Well, guess what? I'm not even going to sleep yet! I'm filthy and I need a shower first!"

"Okay," Castiel says, not budging.

Dean stands up from the bed and pulls off his shirt. He does it sexily, though, where you cross your arms over your back and pull it over your head in one smooth motion.

Castiel does not seem particularly impressed.

"You know," Dean says, lowering his voice in that way that makes everyone swallow involuntarily, "you should probably join me. Just to keep an eye on me."

Castiel stares at him. "I'll wait here."

"I thought I was a suicide risk!" Dean flexes his abdominal muscles as hard as he can. "There are all kinds of sharp objects in there!"

Castiel rolls his eyes. "I think you'll manage."

Dean grumbles and dutifully showers. The hot water scours away the grime and stings on his cuts. He turns it up even hotter, as hot as he can stand. Somehow the scalding feels clean. He scrubs for a long time.

He thinks about all the things he should've said to Sam before he let him walk out the door.

He thinks about all the things he should've said to Sam years ago.

When he gets out and goes back into his room, Castiel is still sitting in the chair facing his bed. Dean walks behind him to the wardrobe to get dressed, and he pointedly drops his towel loudly. Cas doesn't glance back or even _peek_. Dean grumpily slings on sweat pants and clambers onto his king sized bed, glaring at Cas and yanking the sheets around him. "I can't sleep when you're staring at me!" he barks.

Castiel keeps staring.

Dean flips over to his other side, kicking his feet in impotent fury, and cinches the sheets around his neck. "This! This is why I hate you! I hate you more than fucking _Breaking_ _Dawn_. That is how much I hate you!"

"The Twilight book?" Castiel asks, an edge of humor to his voice. "You hate me more than the last Twilight book, specifically?"

Dean whips his head over his shoulder and scowls with the force of a thousand suns. "A WEREWOLF FALLS IN LOVE WITH A BABY!"

"Go to sleep," Castiel says.

After more dark muttering, Dean shuts his eyes, and in a few short minutes he passes out cold.

….

When Dean wakes up, the room is dark. Someone has closed the curtains and turned out the lights. Dean is warm and cozy and safe, and he curls tighter into the pillow. It takes a moment for the past few days' events to sink back into his memory. It settles into the pit of his stomach and churns there.

Slowly, carefully, he turns his head.

Castiel is still sitting in his chair, but he's fallen asleep. Dean can tell from the angle of his head and the slow, steady sound of his breath in and out. Strange, but he'd almost started to believe that the man never slept, that he was some sort of robot whose batteries would run forever.

This is the perfect time to get revenge.

After careful surveillance of the potential weaponry within reach, Dean decides on a dirty sock. Gingerly, he crawls over his bed and slides his bare feet noiselessly to the ground. His plan is to try and get the sock on Castiel's face, or at least on the top of his head. He curses himself for not keeping a Sharpie in his bedside table. So, so slowly, he tiptoes toward Cas and reaches out the sock –

All at once, several things happen.

Grabbing, slamming, knee in his chest, Dean's back thumping back on the mattress as Castiel holds him down with a hand squeezed tight on his throat and the cold barrel of a gun jammed into his stomach.

"Fuck!" Dean croaks. "Hang on hang on hang on!"

Castiel stares down at him with wide dark eyes, panting, teeth clenched, sweat on his temple glistening in the darkness. The barrel presses in harder.

And then suddenly, recognition dawns on his face, and his mouth goes slack. He blinks and quickly gets off of Dean.

Dean gasps and rubs his neck. "Jesus Christ!"

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, holstering his gun. He doesn't meet Dean's eyes. "You shouldn't… Don't sneak up on me."

Dean gazes at him.

Castiel is standing with stiff shoulders, uneasy. He turns on a bedside lamp, and he flinches away from the light.

"What… happened to you?" Dean asks softly.

"I'm well trained," Castiel answers. He looks at the arm of the chair.

"That wasn't training," Dean says. "That was _fear_."

Castiel's eyes snap to his, and then quickly dart away.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

He walks to the door, and looks back at Dean. "I'll be in the TV room when you're ready to talk about this week."

And he leaves.

…


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: _My symphonic cygnets. Dear readers, I love you all. I was able to respond to some of your comments, but I didn't get to all of you, and I apologize – I read them all and loved you all as my own children. (Well, I assume. I don't have any kids. Hopefully, I will love my future offspring as much as I love you.) _

_If there's anything wrong with this chapter, my excuse is that the bar exam is on Tuesday. I have until Tuesday. My head feels like what your cheeks feel like when you stuff a bunch of marshmallows in your mouth until you can't close your lips anymore. (When I was in junior high, this was a game known as "Chubby Bunny." The youth these days probably have a different, cooler, with-it name like #Chubbuns or Totes Chubs or Twerking.) _

_So of course I'm writing gay romance fanfiction. Of course. _

_Oh, I just wanted to mention – for any of you who were disturbed by how much of a shit Dean was in the flashbacks last chapter, keep in mind that that was all from Sam's POV. I'm not going to pull a full "Tall Tales"/Rashomon on y'all, but there are definitely things Sam doesn't know about Dean's life and vice versa, and you'll be getting the other half of the story eventually. _

_Your reward for reviewing this chapter is that I will pass the bar exam. HAHA JUST KIDDING, I CAN NEVER PROMISE YOU THAT._

_*weeps openly, stuffs face with chocolate* _

_Enjoy!_

* * *

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_. Castiel curses himself silently as he sweeps the TV room for bugs. It's impossible to totally secure, given the adjoining walk-in closet of VHS tapes that he doesn't have time to comb, but he compulsively checks the lamps and shelves anyway. His brain is jittering, like a restless leg tapping anxiously under a table. _How could I be so stupid?_

He should have never let his eyes close. Not once. He got lazy. He got careless. And luckily this time, it was only Dean who got the jump on him. He wouldn't be that lucky again.

The look on Dean's face. He _saw_. Somehow, he saw right through Castiel.

Castiel finishes thumbing through the stacks of DVDs and runs his hands along the underside of each plasma screen. Maybe he's panicking over nothing. Maybe Dean will let it go.

"Alright!" Dean announces, kicking the door open and tossing a package of candy onto a nearby couch. "No more Mr. Nice Guy."

Castiel turns to him and raises his eyebrows. "_You're_ a nice guy?"

"Siddown," Dean orders.

Castiel remains standing.

"Sit your ass down, bucko!" Dean exclaims.

"No," Castiel says.

"Jesus fucking –" Dean grabs a bag of candy, rips it open with his teeth, and spits the plastic on the ground. He throws himself down on the couch with an angry flounce and pulls out a handful of licorice. "Fine! _I'll_ sit then! You just listen!"

Castiel sits down on the opposite end of the couch.

Dean scowls fiercely and chomps his licorice.

Castiel gazes back unmoved.

And then something strange happens:

Dean clenches and unclenches his fists, and he stands up and he sits back down again.

He purses his lips together, and he hesitates before he speaks; when he does speak, it's steady and serious. He's not angry anymore. In fact, Castiel suddenly realizes that he was never angry, not at all.

"Castiel," Dean says. "You have got to be straight with me."

Castiel frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You…" Dean licks his lips, and glances toward the door. "What happened, back there…. Cas, I've been asking you about what you do, and you've been feeding me some company line about corporate shenanigans and paper shuffling. But when I startled you, you went into – into combat mode." Dean stares at him, his eyes troubled. "A_ spin doctor_ doesn't react like that. There's a lot you're hiding from me. You've gotta tell me, Cas – what _exactly_ am I signing up for?"

Shit.

Castiel looks around the room. "We can't talk about this here. It's not secure."

Dean quirks an eyebrow. "Well, there _is_ an attached bathroom. And I don't mean to brag, but… I _do_ have surround sound."

….

So they hole themselves up in the surprisingly spacious bathroom while _Lord of the Rings: Return of the King_ plays on full blast in the room outside.

Castiel spends a good twenty minutes sweeping the bathroom from top to bottom. He is painstaking. He can't afford any more mistakes today, and to be perfectly honest he… might be stalling.

Strangely, Dean doesn't complain, or even comment. He simply sits on a wicker chair and watches him silently.

Finally, Castiel is satisfied. He pulls up a matching wicker stool and sits on it, eyeing it dubiously. "Why do you have furniture in here?" he asks.

"You're _welcome_," Dean retorts.

"Do you have bathroom briefings often?"

"Sometimes people use the bathroom! Sometimes they want a place to sit!" Dean exclaims. "Sometimes, your interior decorator tells you that wicker really–" he makes air quotes with his fingers – "'pulls the room together'!"

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Yes. I see. You had no choice. It is a shame how we continue to let strong-willed decorators take advantage of vulnerable billionaires in this country."

"Alright, cut the comedy routine," Dean snaps. "We're secure, we're alone, now tell me what the fuck is going on here."

Castiel leans backward and takes a deep breath. He has an idea of where to begin, but it's all knotted together; finding the loose thread isn't easy. He decides to start where it's simplest.

"As you know, the Trust is secret," he begins. "We operate in the shadows. That affords us a certain amount of protection, but as you can imagine, we weren't the first to come up with the idea. There are other shadow organizations, other empires built outside the law. There are a few who are particularly powerful. Their purposes run counter to ours, and we have… made enemies."

Dean's eyebrows hike up. "Other empires? You're talking like, what, like organized crime? The mafia?"

"Among others," Castiel answers. "The Italian mafia is just one arm of a larger entity, a global entity that seeks to undermine the Trust. That entity is the most powerful entity that opposes us. We call it the Syndicate."

Dean rolls his eyes and throws up a hand, letting it fall and slap down on his knee. "The Trust. The Syndicate. You people are so goddamn dramatic! Doesn't anybody pick fun gang names anymore? Sharks, Jets, Bloods, Crips…"

Castiel frowns at him. "Unique names create paper trails."

"I wasn't –" Dean shakes his head. "Nevermind. Point is, why is this 'Syndicate' out to get you?"

"The Syndicate's vast criminal enterprises include extortion, embezzlement, human trafficking, drug trafficking, and racketeering," Castiel explains. "In some countries, they can afford to do this all out in the open. In the U.S., they start from the bottom up. First, they infiltrate labor unions and local governments in order to exert pressure on businesses of increasing size. Once they have a stranglehold on the local economy, they crack into individual corporations. They begin defrauding the investors and falsifying financial records, siphoning funds and using the company's accounts to launder money. They use these assets to leverage their way into larger and larger corporations, and the cycle continues." He sighs and clasps his hands. "The Trust, on the other hand, is concerned with free markets and corporate interests. We work to reduce the influence of unions. We protect corporations. We protect investors. We fight against corruption."

"Oh, come on! Fighting corruption?" Dean replies indignantly. "That means transparency. You can't tell me the _Trust_ is advocating more corporate transparency!"

"We are opposed to _governmental_ oversight and regulation," Castiel retorts. "But the only way to rationally suggest deregulation is if corporations can police themselves, by internal accountability and transparency to _shareholders_. Investors should have the right to hold their corporate officers to task, Dean. They're relying on them to act in good faith and serve the corporation, not squander and steal their investments. But there are many who believe that government micromanaging is the only way to protect investors. Corruption and fraud only bolster arguments for tighter regulation and more external controls. The Syndicate threatens everything we work for, and we threaten them."

"So what has this got to do with you?" Dean demands.

The question of the hour.

Castiel knows that he owes Dean the truth. He's asking Dean to take a lot on faith, and he has to be honest in return. However, he can still package the truth on his own terms.

He searches for the best phrasing, the most neutral and bloodless words. "I – in the course of my employment, I have been tasked with gathering intelligence for the Trust."

"You're a spy," Dean translates. "That much I gathered."

"I assume identities." Castiel clears his throat. "For covert operations."

Dean sits forward, and clasps his hands over his knees. "You mean like Mr. Castiel Smith?"

Castiel glares at him. "You hacked my identity. Castiel Smith is a wanted man now."

"Not in a couple days!" Dean protests. "Jerry's gonna clear it up, I swear!"

"Yes, well." Castiel again tries to word it so carefully, so distantly. He keeps his hands folded in his lap and looks just past his knees, to a particular square of aqua tile on the floor. "A number of years ago, my cover was compromised. When I was asleep, a Syndicate agent was able to steal my phone. The phone was retrieved and none of the data was transferred, but…" He exhales, and refocuses his eyes to a picture of a sailboat on the wall to the left of Dean. The higher eyeline will appear more natural, less obviously avoidant. "I jeopardized thousands of people's lives. Since then, I have tried to be more careful. I do not normally sleep in unsecured areas."

Dean stares at him. "That's it?"

"Yes," Castiel says.

Dean narrows his eyes. "They just… took the phone from your nightstand?"

Castiel directs his gaze across different portion of the sailboat. Too little eye movement suggests regression into memory. "No. It was on my person."

"So… they tried to get the phone off you while you were asleep?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Castiel says.

"But you woke up," he guesses.

"Yes," Castiel says.

"And… that's why you don't like being woken up unexpectedly?"

"Yes."

Dean squints. "That doesn't make any sense. If they knew the phone was on you, why risk waking you up to get it? Why didn't they just drug you or something and take the phone then?"

And without thinking, Castiel stares at the sailboat and answers, "Well, they needed my passwords."

It's one clue too many.

His eyes snap to Dean, and he can see the pieces coming together in Dean's face, the gears turning _click click click _and abruptly halting, and he pales, and the pit of Castiel's stomach drops out.

"They – they _tortured _you?" Dean asks, his eyes wide.

Fuck.

He's just given Dean a thousand reasons to run.

Castiel scrambles to recover.

"I was – interrogated. But it won't happen to you. You're not in any danger," Castiel assures him, sitting forward, talking too quickly. "You're far too public to be a target for the Syndicate, Dean, and you aren't privy to insider information. Believe me, I would never have asked you to become involved if I thought –"

"Holy shit." Dean puts a hand to the bridge of his still-swollen nose and leans forward over his knees.

Castiel kicks himself mentally. "It was an aberration, Dean. It would never have happened if I had followed the proper security protocols. Obviously, I was recovered and none of the data was lost, so all things considered I was quite lucky. Again, they'll never come after you–"

"_Lucky?_" Dean balks. "Jesus Christ, Cas, just because you didn't die doesn't mean you have to pretend you're _lucky_ you got _tortured!_"

Castiel blinks. "But I am."

Dean stares at him.

"I could have lost the data," Castiel reminds him.

Dean looks at him for a long moment.

He wipes a hand down his face, and then he scoots his wicker chair toward Castiel, and he leans forward and puts a hand on Cas's shoulder.

Castiel isn't certain what's happening.

"Castiel," Dean says in a low voice, looking him straight in the eye. "I don't know what happened to you. I don't have any clue how close you came to dying, or how important the information was that you were protecting. But what I do know is, you had a PTSD reaction because I tried to touch you in your sleep. So no matter how bad it _could_ have been…" His hand tightens on Castiel's shoulder. "Brother, you have been through. Some. Shit." His eyes are steady, and his face is sincere and open. "It's _okay_ to admit it fucked you up."

Castiel opens his mouth, a reflexive denial ready to spring forward –

It had, hadn't it?

He had deserved it, he'd really deserved it, and he'd learned from his mistakes. But no matter how you spun it, it had fucked him up. It fucked him up in so many ways that he wasn't sure what was fucked up anymore and what was normal.

"I suppose I – was taught to see the silver lining," Castiel says slowly. "And I do believe the experience taught me several valuable lessons. But it's true that… in many ways… I've also never been the same."

"There it is!" Dean claps his shoulder and releases him, grinning. "Welcome to Club Headcase, home to disordered jerkoffs everywhere! You'll like it here." He crosses his arms and winks at Castiel. "We have fun."

"What a warm welcome," Castiel says dryly. But there's a pounding in his chest that he couldn't feel a minute ago, an awareness of his own heartbeat, and as he looks at Dean grinning at him with his bruised eye and swollen nose, somehow more _Dean_ than ever, he tries desperately to twist his mouth down against the smile tugging there and fails.

"Hell, your issues beat _my_ issues hand over fist. You're actually kinda makin' me look like a pussy," Dean adds, sitting back heavily in his wicker chair. "What's 'your father's dying words' compared to fucking _torture_?"

Castiel tilts his head. "You never told me about that."

Dean stiffens. "About what?"

"Your father's last words."

Dean swallows.

Then he shrugs and flaps a hand casually. "Ah, well. Story for another time." He scratches his knee, and stands up abruptly.

Castiel watches him. "There's time now."

He turns and paces away, his back to Cas, toward the sink, rubbing the back of his neck.

Castiel doesn't say anything more.

The soundtrack of the movie bleeds through the door, majestic brass and heavy timpani. Someone is marching on some fortress, some battle is about to be fought, and a war cry rises up with a raucous cheer, drowning the music in sheer disorganized noise.

Dean cocks his head, and then spins around.

There's a tight smirk on his face. "You know the staff thinks we're fucking, right?" he remarks.

Castiel frowns. "Why?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Because I fuck everybody. And we just spent several hours in my bedroom in the dark, and now we're in the TV room playing a really loud, long movie. By now, they'll have a pool going on how many hickeys you'll have when you come out."

Castiel exhales through his nose. "Well. Let them talk, I suppose."

"Or, you know. In the words of Bonnie Raitt…." Dean puts one hand flat on white ceramic countertop of the sink and pops a hip, posing seductively. "Let's give 'em somethin' to talk about."

Castiel stares at him.

Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

"Stop doing this," Castiel says.

"Doing what?" Dean asks innocently.

"Pushing me away," Castiel answers.

Dean stands up straight and snorts. "How is hitting on you pushing you away?"

"You know that it's unwanted," Castiel says. "You only do it to needle at me and prove to me that any interest you feel for me is purely sexual. Perhaps, you do it to convince yourself as well. And again and again, whenever you have a moment of real honesty or vulnerability, you start making sexual offers that _you know_ will be rejected out of hand rather than making an emotional offer and risking real rejection."

Dean's face and neck has turned a bright shade of crimson.

"Wow," he says. "Let me guess, you minored in psych in college."

Castiel stands up. "Yet you don't deny it."

"You're dead wrong," Dean jeers. "There, that enough denial for you, Freud?"

Castiel steps closer to him. "Dean."

Dean glares back at him with defensive eyes, and then ducks his head toward the sink.

Castiel puts a hand to his arm, skin to skin. "Look at me."

Dean looks up reluctantly.

"I like you," Cas says.

Dean stares at him for a minute, then blinks hard and juts his head forward expectantly. "And?"

Castiel shrugs. "There's nothing to add. It's just a fact."

Dean's eyebrows knot together. "I don't get it."

"It's that simple," Castiel says. "I like you. Accept it. Stop running from it."

The flush rises again in Dean's face, but he doesn't look away.

"Please stop asking me to have sex with you," Castiel says.

"Yeah, okay," Dean mumbles.

Castiel drops the hand from his arm and gives him a slight smile.

Dean reddens and doesn't smile. There's a flare to his nostrils and wideness of his eyes that betray his internal panic, but to his credit, he doesn't deflect. He doesn't crack a joke. With obvious effort, he says, "Yeah. Okay. I like you too. As... a person."

Unexpected.

Against his better judgment, Castiel allows his smile to widen, and there's a sensation in his chest almost like he's drinking hot coffee - warming from the inside out, rising from his sternum up into his throat and mouth and face until his cheeks are burning.

He realizes he hasn't said anything.

"Well - good," he says, almost stammering. "Glad to hear it. Now…" He returns to the wicker stool, and sits back down. "Let's discuss your schedule for this coming week…."

….


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: _My breathless butterflies! Thank you so much for all your comments and well-wishes. I took the bar exam, and I won't find out whether or not I passed it until September. YUP. September will DEFINITELY be an anxiety-free month for me! Apologies in advance for the shortness of this chapter and its tardiness - immediately after the bar I had a weekend with my parents, a job interview, and then a trip to Illinois to visit relatives, and NONE of that is conducive to writing. The pacing of this chapter may feel weird too because I intended to write more, but I'm SO late in getting this to you that I figured you'd prefer a slightly truncated chunk now rather than having to wait even longer for the next bit. Your reward for reviewing this chapter is a hot steaming pile of vegan tofu-kale scramble that I tried for the first time this week. It's... honestly not bad? Here, put some hot sauce on it. There you go. Little more. Little more sauce. Aaaaand that's enough. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**The following morning, 8:00 am, at Sam's office**

In his crisp suit, behind his tidy desk, Sam does not look like a man who was recently in a fist fight. Castiel notes that the swelling has subsided, and that he has used some makeup to hide the bruises, but there are still gray shadows along his jaw that could not be totally concealed.

"I'm so sorry about how all of this turned out," Sam apologizes. "As you probably guessed from my… _altercation_ with Dean, I'm no longer going to be interfering with his business." He runs a hand through his hair. "So, unfortunately, I have to let you go. But as per your contract, you'll receive the first six month's salary, and if you need me to write any recommendations I'd be happy to –"

"I won't be seeking other employment," Castiel says. "Dean has hired me."

Sam stares at Castiel, his jaw slack.

"He –" Sam opens and shuts his mouth, gaping like a fish. "He _hired _you? He wants you to stay?"

"Yes."

"To be his _handler?_"

"Yes."

Sam cocks his head and narrows his eyes. "Are you – are you some kind of sorcerer?"

Castiel puts his hands on his knees and sits forward. "Sam, I don't think you realize how badly Dean wants his life to be different."

Sam's eyes harden. "All I've _ever_ tried to do is help him get his life back on track. And every time, he insists on doing the same things he's been doing for the past six years. He fights me at every single opportunity. So you say Dean wants to change?" He snorts. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Castiel sighs. "There is… so much between you two that I don't know about," he says ruefully. "I think you may be right to keep your distance, for now. But you should reconsider cutting him out of your life completely. Give him another chance." He stands up and buttons his jacket. "A day may come when you will need him to return the favor."

Sam's eyebrows knot together. "What are you talking about?"

Castiel looks at him evenly, and his eyes take on a sharp edge. "We live in the intelligence age, Sam. Secrets are auctioned to the highest bidder. Did you really think no one would discover yours?"

Sam colors slightly, but he keeps his baffled demeanor perfectly in place, staring up at him from his desk chair. He's very good at this. "Castiel, I have _no_ _clue_ what you're talking about. Are you – are you trying to blackmail me?"

"I'm trying to warn you," Castiel says truthfully. "You're playing a dangerous game. A worse man would have less to lose. You're a good man, and you stand to lose everything."

Sam's nostrils flare. "I think you should leave now."

Castiel walks to the door, and at the last second, he turns back.

"Dean doesn't have any idea," he says. "But I won't keep him in the dark forever."

And with that, he leaves Sam sitting at his desk, staring into space with his fingernails digging into his knees.

...

**8:21 am, in Miguel's room**

"Omelets! Omelets! Omelets!" Tina and Kelly chant.

"Fine," Miguel sighs. "But then _you two_ have to help Louise dust the cufflink collection."

Tina and Kelly high-five. "Yussss!" Tina crows.

To be honest, Miguel doesn't really mind.

Louise insists that the regular day staff start work at 8, but the actual amount of work to be done varies from day to day. Miguel usually makes a quick circuit of the house to make sure nothing is amiss, checks his email, and does any desk work he has first. On the slower days, he'd seen other staff having early morning gatherings in the kitchen, chatting and being sociable, but he was hesitant to join without being invited first. So yesterday, he casually let it slip out during conversation that he was pretty good at making breakfast foods.

This morning after he made his rounds, Tina and Kelly finished loading the laundry and came to bother Miguel at his desk, poking him in the ribs and insisting he make them omelets.

Pretending to be heavily put-upon, he lets them drag him to the kitchen.

….

It's strange, living with your employer. On a subconscious level, you begin to appropriate their belongings as your belongings. You feel a sense of possession in your surroundings, ownership, even though you're no more entitled to them than a visiting neighbor. Miguel has only been living here a couple of weeks, and he's already stopped thinking of it as "Mr. Winchester's kitchen" and started thinking of it as "_the_ kitchen."

Incidentally, he's also the only one who has ever called Dean "Mr. Winchester." It was an attempt at establishing boundaries. A sad, failed attempt…

Miguel takes one of Jeff's aprons off the peg in the pantry and ties it around his waist.

"OooooooooOOOO!" Kelly says in an accusatory tone. "Using Jeff's apron without permission! You're gonna be in trouble!"

"He'll never be the wiser," Miguel assures her.

"Kelly's a tattle-tale," Tina says in a loud stage whisper. "A stool-pigeon! She'll sell you out for a pack of cigs, man."

Kelly points her nose the air and whips her blonde ponytail self-righteously. "Just because _I_ have a _conscience!_"

Miguel grins and begins cracking the eggs into a bowl. "Why don't you ladies make yourselves useful and start chopping the peppers and onions?"

"_Jeff_ never makes us chop!" Tina whines.

"That's because Jeff can do it in half the time," Miguel counters. "If I tried to slice things as fast as he does, I'd julienne my fingers."

The hinges of the kitchen door squeak. "Jeff?"

The three of them turn at look at the doorway.

Dean is standing there, swaying slightly and rubbing his eye with a fist. He's wearing nothing but boxer shorts and slippers, and his hair is sticking up straight in uneven patches. "Where's Jeff?" he asks.

The three of them stare, gaping.

It's 8:30 am, and Dean Winchester is awake. Voluntarily. And _not_ because he stayed up all night – he _woke up_ at 8:30.

"Jeff… doesn't get in until ten, sir," Miguel says gently. "It's only 8:30."

Dean blinks slowly. "So… Jeff's not here?"

"No, sir," Miguel says.

Dean looks like he might cry.

Tina darts over to his side. "Sweetie, Miguel was just about to make us some omelets. You want an omelet?" She guides him toward the kitchen table. "Why don't you sit down and he'll make you an omelet?"

Dean bobs his head in a repeating nod. "Omelet," he mumbles. He sinks into his seat. "Hungry." He leans forward, plants his face directly on the kitchen table, and groans.

Kelly sits down on the other side of him, flicking worried glances at Tina and Miguel, and rubs his shoulder soothingly. "What're you doing up so early, hon? Trouble sleeping?"

Dean groans again, and then turns his face so that he can answer Kelly, his cheek pressed into the wooden tabletop. "Cas is picking me up at nine."

"For what?" Kelly asks.

"Shopping," Dean sighs, his eyes closed.

"Why don't you just call him and tell him to come at ten instead?" Kelly suggests.

"No, I gotta…" He yawns. "Gotta do this, I promised him."

Tina frowns. "Who are you, and what have you done with Dean?"

Dean chuckles into the tabletop. "Get me some coffee, and I'll tell you where I hid the body."

Tina saunters over to the espresso machine, eyeing Dean suspiciously. "You want some whiskey in it?"

"Nahhh," Dean mumbles dejectedly. "Not s'posed to drink til we get back. Promised."

The other three exchanged matching shocked looks.

Kelly rubs his shoulder. "Honey," she says, "you seem to have had a big change of heart about Castiel. He's not – he's not threatening you or anything, right?"

Dean sits up slowly, stretching out his arms and shaking his head. "No, no, we're cool now. We sorted our shit."

Tina grins at him. "Are you guys…. Eh?" She makes a suggestive hand gesture.

Dean snorts and rubs a hand down his face. "Of course," he mutters. "Of course. We're fuckin' like rabbits."

Later, Miguel decides it must have been the early morning camaraderie affecting his brain – being so friendly with his coworkers lulling him into lowering his guard of professionalism – or perhaps a miniature stroke that made him momentarily forget who he was and to whom he was speaking. But whatever the cause, for some reason he blurts out sarcastically, "Yeah _right._"

The words hang frozen in the air, irretrievable.

Tina and Kelly glare at him.

Dean stares.

Miguel blushes a little, and cracks more eggs into the bowl. "Apologies," he says, pulling his shoulders in and willing himself to be invisible.

"Nah, you're, uh, you're right," Dean says, a self-conscious smile twisting his mouth. "I'm fulla shit. Dude's some kinda monk or something. Haven't touched him." But he keeps looking at Miguel, with the same focused, calculating look. He is officially awake.

Miguel refuses to make eye contact and focuses on whisking the eggs. Dean's gaze makes him want to sink into the floor and never be noticed again, embarrassment throbbing in his throat; and at the same time part of him desperately wants to look up and see Dean still watching him closely, tracking his movements, sharp eyes on his target.

This is why boundaries are so important.

Kelly looks back and forth between them shrewdly.

"So he's not threatening you, he's not coercing you, and he's not blowing you…" Tina catalogues the items, counting off on her fingertips. "And yet you're awake and sober at 8:30 in the morning?"

"And starving," Dean reminds her. "How're those omelets coming along, Miguel?"

"Just fine," Miguel mumbles. "Tina, can you help me chop the vegetables?"

With a weary sigh Tina walks over and gets out the peppers and onions from the fridge. "Fiiiiiiiine."

"I'll cut up some ham," Kelly volunteers. "And I'll figure out where Jeff hid the bacon bits."

"And what can I help with?" Dean asks.

The other three look at him in confusion.

Dean flushes bright red. "Never mind, ha, I just…. I…. Jeff's not here…" He scratches his jawline where his stubble is coming in, and says, chuckling, "It's so fucking early. I forgot that this is what I pay you for."

"You could grate the cheese," Tina suggests.

Dean barks a laugh and kicks his feet up on the chair next to him. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Fat chance! I'm rich, I'm _above_ cheese-grating."

"Are you _sure_?" Kelly asks, coaxing.

Her tone is a touch too patronizing. Miguel can see the ire flare up in Dean's eyes. "Sure as shit," he snaps. "Now what does it take to get a goddamn drink around here?"

Kelly glances at Tina and Tina slightly shrugs.

Miguel can see the dominos tipping, but he doesn't know what to do. "You said you promised Castiel you weren't going to drink this morning," he tries.

Dean glowers at him. "Changed my mind. Do I need your _permission _first, your highness?"

"No, sir," Miguel answers shortly.

Dean's eyes flash, and his nostrils flare, and he says, "Alright then, so are you gonna pour me some whiskey?"

"Yes, sir," he replies.

So he pours Dean three fingers of whiskey, and sets it on the table in front of him.

Dean glares at him and takes three big gulps of the whiskey – gulps that would make Miguel cough and sputter. He sets the glass down heavily and hisses his breath out through his teeth. He keeps looking at Miguel as though proving a point, as though showing Miguel who is in control. What his _place_ is.

This is why boundaries are so important.

"Anything else, sir?" Miguel asks quietly. Subserviently.

And even now, with his bruised and healing face and his hair flattened in uneven patches, there is something painfully handsome about the shape of Dean's jaw and the set of his green eyes, and when Miguel speaks, something falters in his face –

regret shrinking his mouth, guilt rounding his eyes, his adam's apple dipping in the hollow of his throat –

and it almost hurts.

"It's too early," Dean mutters, looking away. "Didn't mean to be a dick."

Kelly is instantly at his side, rubbing his back and patting his hand. "Why don't you go hop in the shower while we finish the omelets? That'll wake you up!"

"I second the shower," Tina comments. "You look _wrecked_."

"I look _gorgeous_!" Dean proclaims, getting up from the table. "I am a beautiful man and you are all _blessed_ to behold me!"

"Yeah, well, bless us by washing your stank off, Saint Dean."

"It's a _holy_ _miasma_, thank you very much…"

….

**9:00 am**

Castiel arrives to pick Dean up, and waits in the car outside on the main driveway.

Dean lurches his way into the car – wet hair, faded t-shirt, basketball shorts, and aggressively minty breath - and collapses into the passenger seat. "God, I hate you," he groans. "This is so unnecessary."

The minty smell has an unmistakable sharp tang underneath it. Castiel exhales in disappointment. He expected this, but he was hoping for better. "Get out of the car."

Dean stares at him, blinking. "What?"

Castiel looks over at him. "You've been drinking. I explained my expectations."

"I had ONE SWIG!" Dean protests. "I'm not drunk, Scout's honor! And even if I were, it's not like I haven't gone shopping drunk before…"

"Out," Castiel commands.

"I'm not a _dog_," Dean snarls.

Castiel glares at him. "You don't have a right to be offended. I told you the rules and you broke them. Get out of the car."

Scowling, Dean yanks open the car door and jerkily climbs out, slamming it behind him. He starts to walk back to the front door.

"Tomorrow at 9," Castiel calls after him.

Without looking back, Dean flips him off and goes inside.

Castiel sighs and goes to put his car into gear, when his phone rings.

It's Dean.

"Hello?" he answers.

"So, you're like, free now, right?"

"… Why do you ask?"

"Wanna come in and watch Planet of the Apes?"

"You broke the rules, Dean. I'm not going to _hang out_ with you."

"Fiiine. Tomorrow then. After shopping. Apes?"

"Are you going to be actually ready tomorrow?"

"Yes. Promise. Pinky promise! If I don't drink, you'll watch Apes with me. That's the deal. Deal?"

"… I don't kn–"

"YOU MANIACS! YOU BLEW IT UP! AH, DAMN YOU! GOD DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!"

"…."

"That's a sneak preview."

"Goodbye, Dean."

"Is that a yes?"

Castiel hangs up and pockets his phone.

…..


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: **The following is a thing that sometimes happens when I post late at night. There is really no other explanation**.

_Come, children, come. Come sit by your Babushka. Babushka, she have story for her children. _

_What is Babushka story being? What type Babushka is telling? Well, Babushka will tell story and then children no more ask. Come, sit by - _

_Oh, you are too busy for story. _

_Yes, Babushka know busy. Babushka work very hard, all day typing, many letter, many backspace. Babushka hungry? She work. Babushka sleepy? She work. Babushka birthday? She work. Babushka never stop except for praying. Babushka pray Lord Jesus help her work harder. Then Lord Jesus come down from Heaven and say, "Babushka, is time, is time for you go Heaven, where is much butter candy and strong boy angel," and Babushka say, "No, Lord Jesus, no Heaven. Babushka story no finish. Babushka work." _

_So you see, Babushka understand. You is busy. You is busy at hospital? Is busy fight fire?_

_Ah. _

_Is busy with friend. Is fine. Go friend. You go friend and drink cola and eat many dried meats. Babushka wait here. Babushka wait for Lord Jesus and go Heaven. Babushka leave story for to bury with Babushka._

_Oh, now you is wanting story? _

_Come, sit by Babushka. Babushka has a story for her children..._

* * *

**9:46** **a.m.**

After Castiel comes to pick Dean up, Miguel settles back into his normal routine. It's a bright summer day, and everyone in the house seems to be in a good mood. When Miguel tells Louise about Dean's strange morning behavior, she brightens and quickly starts making notes to ask Dean if this is going to be a repeat occurrence, so she can bring in Jeff earlier and have Kelly wake him up. "He hates alarms," she tells Miguel. "He likes to wake up gradually, and Kelly is very good at being both gentle and persistent."

After cleaning up the kitchen and checking in with the gardeners, Miguel finally returns to his room. He pushes open the door and steps inside –

Dean is sitting in his desk chair. Waiting. Basketball shorts and a grey t-shirt that clings too tightly, liquor bottle in hand, languid and expectant.

Miguel freezes. "I thought you left with Castiel?"

Dean lifts the bottle of rum propped on his knee and smirks. "Nah, he figured out I had a little hair of the dog at breakfast. Gonna try again tomorrow."

"What are you –" His voice comes out too high, and he clears his throat. "What can I help you with, sir?"

Dean gazes at him.

It's the look from breakfast, focused and calculating. Not cold, but cool, with a smooth hardness to it, like the flat of a sharp blade against your fingertips. And somehow –

dangerous.

He rises from the chair slowly, and purses his lips. There's a slight sway to his stance, barely perceptible except for the circular swirling of the rum inside its bottle, as the bottle dangles loosely by the neck between two of his fingers.

He steps toward Miguel. "How did you know about me and Castiel?"

Miguel swallows and fights the urge to step backward. "What do you mean?"

Dean cocks his head. There is a pinkness to his cheeks that wasn't there earlier this morning, a redness in his eyes. His voice is low and careful. "Everybody else, they assumed me and Cas were fucking. But when I said it, you laughed."

"I didn't laugh," Miguel protests.

Dean continues stepping closer, close enough now to smell the rum on his breath. "You thought it was laughable."

Miguel's heart races, and he can feel his breath coming faster. He doesn't have any reason to be frightened of Dean – no reason whatsoever – and yet adrenaline tingles in his palms. "I'm sorry," he says.

Dean chuckles. "I'm not offended, Miguel. After all, you were right. There's nothing going on between us. What I want to know is…" He leans forward, a knowing smile lingering on his lips, and clasps a heavy hand on Miguel's shoulder. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "_How did you know?_"

Sweat gathers along Miguel's hairline. "I guess I just – guessed, sir," he answers.

Dean's eyes flicker back and forth, pointed sharp, looking into each of Miguel's eyes, scanning his face. His hand tightens. "Have you been _eavesdropping_, Miguel? Have you been listening in on me?"

"No!" Miguel blurts. "Of course not, sir!"

Dean' jaw clenches, and he growls, "Then why are you _lying_ to me?"

Miguel sucks in a breath, balls his hands at his sides, and the rest tumbles out of him in babbling rush. "I haven't been eavesdropping I swear it's just that Castiel isn't gay he's not gay I'd bet my life on it he's totally straight and I have really good gaydar and you're handsome and all but I _really_ don't think you can turn a man gay with a set of good cheekbones!"

Dean blinks.

"Sorry!" Miguel squeaks. He can feel his entire face and neck burning red.

Dean releases his shoulder, and leans back from him.

Miguel gulps.

Dean's face splits into a grin. "Miguelito," he chuckles. "Oh, you sweet, precious idiot. Of _course _I can turn a man gay with my cheekbones."

The air rushes out of Miguel's lungs in a flood of relief.

"Look at me!" Dean sucks his cheeks in and squints his eyes for his best Blue Steel impression. "I look like a fucking _model_, man! The only reason Castiel can resist my charms is because he's some kind of celibate weirdo. No man is immune to my sexual magnetism!"

Heat rises in Miguel's face. "Of course, sir. My mistake."

And then Dean looks at Miguel, and seems to realize how close he's standing.

He takes a hasty step back. "Not that… I mean – I'm not trying – at you… Not that I _wouldn't_ – but I wouldn't –" He palms his forehead and groans. "Don't tell Louise I said that."

"No problem, sir," Miguel says, his cheeks still warm.

"Sorry for the third degree, man," Dean says. He starts reach out toward Miguel and hesitates, and then closes his hand to give him an awkward feigned shoulder punch. "Well. Uh. Anyway. At ease, soldier. Return to your post."

"Yes, sir."

Dean leaves the room, swigging his rum and glancing back at Miguel.

Miguel sits at his computer. He reads the same paragraph three times before he can collect himself enough to understand what the words are saying.

…..

**12:53 p.m.**

_You have reached the voicemail of _Sam Winchester. _Please leave a message after the beep._

_**Beeeep**__. _

"Hey Sammy. It's me, Shithead. Yes, I'm drunk. Just hear me out. Listen, I wanna apologize for the other day. Cas said not to call buuuuut I had to call because…"

The sound of a heavy inhale.

"Sam, I'm already fucking it up. I don't have any more chances, I know that, this is my last chance, and it's day one and I'm already fucking it up. And I – I'm terrified, man. I'm fuckin' scared shitless. Cuz after this, I got… I got nothing. It's the end of the line. And I want you to know –"

A long silence.

"Sam, I know it's killing you. Lookin' after me. And that – that's what made me so pissed at you, because…. _shit_…"

Shaky exhale.

"I woulda been there for you, man. If you were going through some shit, I wouldn't treat you like... Like a – an inconvenience. Even if it sucked, even if you were a dick. You know? From the start, right after I came back everything I did was wrong, and you didn't really care _why_ I did any of it. You were just so fucking angry that I did it. You never asked why. You didn't try to find out what was goin' on with me, you just tried to fuckin' – fuckin' _order _me to stop. And that made it real hard–"

Throat clearing.

"Made it real hard to believe you gave a damn about me."

Another long silence.

Hoarse, cracked voice. "But I've been doin' a lotta talkin' lately, and I realized somethin'. Even if you'd asked me – asked me straight up – I wouldn't have told you. I'm fuckin' terrible at talking about this shit, Sammy, and I only say half of what I mean and I leave out the most important parts and I lie, I lie and lie and lie to everyone around me. So bein' pissed at you is fucking stupid. I coulda talked any time and I didn't. So. That's on me."

Pause.

"M'sorry, Sam. And if things work out, I'll do what I can to make things right. And if they don't work out, I just wanted… I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

…..

**The following day, 9:00 am **

Dean climbs into the passenger seat. Ripped jeans, faded t-shirt, wet hair, preemptive scowl.

"Good morning," Castiel greets him.

"Morning is never good," Dean snaps. "Morning can suck my dick."

"You need to go to sleep earlier."

Dean glares at him. "Can it, Mom. The sooner this is over with, the sooner I can drink, so put your ass in gear and drive!"

"First…" Castiel reaches into his pocket and hands over the black tracker bracelet. "Put this on."

Dean grumbles but snaps it on his wrist. "If you don't watch Planet of the Apes with me, I swear to God, there will be retribution."

….

When they arrive at their destination, Dean is confused. "This isn't a store," he says. "This is a clinic!"

"Yes," Castiel answers, unbuckling. "You have a doctor's appointment."

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" Dean exclaims. "You told me we were shopping!"

"We are." Castiel gives him that humored look. "After your doctor's appointment."

"I was just _joking_ about the no-doctor-in-three-years thing, you assbag!" Dean insists angrily. "A doctor checked me out for my alcohol program, my cholesterol is FINE!"

Castiel's gaze turns serious. "And that doctor prescribed you several medications to keep the alcohol withdrawal from seriously harming or killing you. Correct?"

Dean reddens. "So?"

"I'm not asking you to immediately abstain from all drinking, and your withdrawal symptoms should be less severe because of that," Castiel says. "But I am not a doctor. And if you're going to quit drinking, it needs to be under medical supervision. That is non-negotiable."

Dean looks out the window at the clinic and scowls.

Castiel waits for him to come to his own conclusions.

After a minute, Dean throws off his seatbelt and mutters, "You're the fucking worst."

….

**11:21 a.m., at the grocery store**

Dean leans his forearms on the handle of the shopping cart and looks plaintively towards the candy bars. "Can't I get just one?"

"No," Castiel answers, putting a can of mixed nuts in the cart.

"Why not?" Dean whines.

"Candy bars are not on the list." Castiel frowns at him. "Besides, you have hundreds of them at home."

"But those are at home!" Dean protests. "I want a Snickers _now_."

"No."

Dean groans loudly and glowers at the items in the cart. "What is all this stuff even for, anyways?"

Castiel selects a bag of loose granola. "Supplies."

"Wow, thank you, that explains everything," Dean retorts.

Castiel takes the cart from Dean and pushes it down the aisle. "You'll find out eventually."

Dean jams his hands in his pockets and follows sullenly. "Why did you even bring me here? This is pointless. I could be in bed with two Brazilian dancers and a massage therapist right now! And instead, I'm at the 'Stop N' Save,' whatever the fuck that is!"

Castiel stops the cart and looks at Dean. "When was the last time you went grocery shopping?"

Dean squints up at the ceiling. "Uhhhh… Probably when I was like, twelve."

"Do you ever read _Us Weekly_?" Castiel asks.

Dean stares at him. "No. God no. Of course not."

"They have a section called 'Stars – They're Just Like Us,'" he continues. "It's photographs of celebrities doing normal, everyday things. Eating frozen yogurt, riding bicycles, playing with dogs, and so forth."

"You want _Us Weekly_ to take pictures of me shopping?" Dean asks, baffled.

Castiel sighs. "No – I'm just explaining the point. Why would people want to see pictures of celebrities doing banal, ordinary activities? Because, on some level, they enjoy identifying with the rich and famous. It makes the celebrities seem more human and real, rather than photoshopped fantasies on a glossy page." Castiel starts pushing the cart down the aisle again. "You need to start grocery shopping once a week. It doesn't matter what you buy. It doesn't matter whether or not you are noticed – although I do think you will be noticed. All that matters is that one day, in an interview, you will tell a news anchor that you still go grocery shopping every week to keep in touch with ordinary life, and you will be telling the truth."

Dean follows him, and considers this.

"You know," he says thoughtfully, "I feel like people would really identify with me eating a Snickers."

"No."

"Christ, you're a fucking buzzkill! I could buy this entire store and you won't let me buy one goddamn candy bar!"

Castiel is unmoved. "You haven't earned it yet."

"_Earned_ it?!" Dean demands incredulously. "I was ready at 9 o'clock on the dot, bone dry and praying for death! What more do you want from me?"

Castiel gives him a withering look. "Being sober and punctual is not an achievement, Dean. It's the bare minimum required to participate in society."

Dean glares at him furiously, and then says tightly through his teeth, "I can't believe I _ever_ offered you a handjob."

Castiel rolls his eyes and puts four cans of baked beans in the cart.

…

**12:37 p.m.**

They pack their groceries into the car and begin the drive home. Their task is complete for the day; tomorrow will be clothes shopping.

Dean settles into his seat, staring out the window. His expression isn't quite blank – it's preoccupied, lost in thought. It seems to be a habit of his. Castiel lets him be, in spite of his inclination to press him to talk.

The scenery that passes by them is not particularly captivating. The sky is overcast with low-looming clouds, and it seems to sap the color out of everything. Not that there was much color to begin with – this is a flat industrial area, a warehouse district, with squat cement buildings scattered like loose blocks next to the long rail yard. The road runs alongside the train tracks; straight, boring, badly paved. Castiel chose the Stop N' Save for its location, so that it would be impossible to run into anyone Dean knows, but the price is a longer and grayer drive.

After a few minutes, Dean speaks.

"I like to think in the car," he says. "I used to go out for long drives when I needed to clear my head, away from the city, into the woods, just… cruising…" He chews his lip and taps his fingers on his knee.

Then he glances over at Castiel. "You're always checking my house for bugs," he says. "Every room, every time. But the security at my house is great. You saw for yourself. You tried to sneak in and you were stopped in the back garden. So it would be pretty fuckin' impossible for someone to sneak in long enough to plant a bug."

"I'm very thorough," Castiel says. "There is little difference between someone who is paranoid and someone who is prepared."

Dean purses his lips and cocks his head. "Or," he counters, "maybe you think that someone on my staff might be bugging me. That someone on my staff might work for the Syndicate."

Castiel hesitates.

"I've checked into all of their backgrounds thoroughly," he answers. "None of them appear to have any ties to the Syndicate."

"Even Miguel?" Dean asks.

Castiel does a double take, turning to Dean and quickly snapping his gaze back to the road. "Why? What did he do?"

"It was this stupid thing, at breakfast yesterday." Dean won't meet his eyes now, and his voice is purposely casual. "Something he said – it was like he'd heard our conversations. I asked him about it afterward and I don't think he's spying on me, but he's definitely hiding something."

"You _asked_ him about it?" Castiel says sharply. "Dean, you should have let me deal with it."

Dean's eyes cut back at him. "He's my employee. I handled it."

"If he _is_ doing something illicit, you've just put him on high alert. Now he'll be twice as cautious," Cas snaps.

"Good!" Dean snaps back. "If he's fucking with me, I _want_ him to be on edge. I'm fucking tired of playing the idiot, Cas, I'm not gonna sit back and watch somebody make a fool outta me!"

"You don't have the luxury of pride right now," Cas growls, his eyes on the road. "Our campaign is in its infancy. The Syndicate could kill it with the snap of its fingers, if it so chose. So you need to tread carefully, feign ignorance, and do not, _do not_ confront anyone without discussing it with me first."

Dean is silent.

Castiel glances over, expecting to see Dean sullenly pouting.

Instead, he is looking out the window with his face turned away, his chin tucked toward his right shoulder. His face, turned as far away Cas as he can turn.

He's _hiding_ his face.

Cas wants to reach out and put a hand on his arm. But he doesn't. He keeps both hands on the wheel.

Dean speaks quietly. "This thing we're doing. It's a secret, right?"

"For now," Castiel answers.

"You didn't –" Dean clears his throat. "You haven't told anyone about it."

"No."

Dean rubs his forehead. "Don't. Even when it's safe to tell, don't tell anyone. Not even Louise."

"I won't," Castiel says. "Can I ask why?"

"If it doesn't work out." Dean keeps his face turned away. "I don't want their disappointment on my shoulders. You know?"

Castiel doesn't say anything. He isn't sure what to say.

Then Dean rubs his chin and mumbles, "It's gonna be bad enough disappointing you."

Castiel's hands squeeze tight on the wheel.

"Then don't disappoint me," he says.

Dean laughs bitterly. "Sure."

"Dean," Cas says, "I will not be disappointed in you if you fail. Failure, in one degree or another, is inevitable whenever you attempt any challenge. I will only ever be disappointed in you if you stop _trying_."

He turns his eyes back to the road, and he can feel Dean turn his face back to look at him. He knows that if he looks over, Dean will look away, and so he keeps his eyes focused on the gray strip of road out his windshield.

Dean snorts.

"Thanks a bunch, Mr. Rogers," he retorts sarcastically. "For a straight guy, you're gay as shit, you know that?"

Cas ignores the remark.

"Alright, let's get some tunes goin' in here." Dean cranks the radio on a classic rock station and lights up. "Godzilla! I love this song! _Ohhhh no, there goes Tokyo, go go Godzilla!"_

Dean sings the rest of the song at top volume and questionable pitch, occasionally adding hand gestures, and Castiel is surprised to discover that he doesn't mind it.

…

**2:03 p.m.**

"I've never actually watched Planet of the Apes before," Castiel admits, just before the movie starts. "But I already know the plot of it."

"You've never seen it?!" Dean exclaims. "Way to bury the fucking lead, Cassandra!"

They're in Dean's movie theater room, which is eerily empty and silent. It looks just like a real theater – black upholstered chairs arranged on an incline, red velvet curtains on the sides of the big white screen, and up in the back a projector room where a staff member runs the films. Dean and Cas are situated in the exact middle seats of the exact middle row, per Dean's demands, with a bucket of popcorn and obscenely large soda cups.

"I already know everything that happens," Cas says. "It's as though I've actually seen it."

"No, no, no." Dean shakes his head adamantly. "You have not seen Charlton. Motherfucking. Heston. Just – okay, we just have to watch this. But watch closely, NO distractions! The opening is perfect. Golden." He sits back in his seat just as the projector starts up and shoves a giant handful of popcorn in his mouth.

Charlton Heston, the blonde astronaut, fills the screen and begins his opening monologue. He explains in his captain's log that due to the relativity of time, seven hundred years have already passed on Earth since he and his shipmates left. "This much is probably true - the men who sent us on this journey are long since dead and gone," he says. "You who are reading me now are a different breed - I hope a better one."

Dean shoves an elbow into Cas. "_Different breed_," he whispers. "Get it? Foreshadowing, man!"

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Yes, Dean. I caught that."

As the movie progresses, Castiel starts to understand why Dean meant about Charlton Heston. The lead character, Taylor, is abrasive and jaded and arrogant, yet compelling. Through enormous plotholes and leaps of logic, Taylor carries the movie by making the viewer desperate to see him escape – even though he and the viewer both know that he has nothing to escape _to_. As his escape starts to unfold, Taylor grows bolder and bolder and quickly begins to overpower his ape allies, taking command of a situation that he has no right to command through force and intimidation. He is the perfect avatar of the human hubris that led to mankind's downfall, and still you want him to succeed.

Then, of course, the famous ending scene plays. Taylor screams at the foot of the half-submerged Statue of Liberty, and Dean silently mouths the words and pantomimes along.

As soon as the credits roll, Dean turns to Castiel. "So, was I right, or was I right?"

"It was good," Castiel says. "I enjoyed it." And he means it.

"Damn straight you did!" Dean empties the last bits of the popcorn out of the bucket and into his mouth. "Motherfucking classic, is what it is."

"Why did you want to watch this with me?"

Dean shrugs. "I don't like sitting in here alone. Pretty sure this theater is at least semi-haunted, so I gotta use the buddy system."

Castiel frowns. "How could it be haunted? You built it five years ago."

"Pshht, ghosts _love_ theaters," Dean scoffs. "They seek 'em out. You get a projector, couple seats… bam. It's like ghost crack. They can't resist it. And I had to go and get the goddamn velvet _curtains_, which is – that's like a whole kilo of ghost crack."

"Ghost… crack," Cas repeats skeptically.

"Yeah," Dean says, looking at Cas like he's stupid. "Crack, but for ghosts."

"You're deflecting my question," Cas says.

"What was the question?"

"Why did you want to watch this movie with me?"

Dean avoids his gaze and sucks a long, noisy drink out of his soda cup. He gulps it down, and then shrugs. "I haven't watched it in awhile. I tried to, uh, I tried to watch it with some chicks awhile back and they weren't into it, they don't like old movies. They kept texting and tryin' to blow me and shit." He grins at Cas. "I figured you wouldn't try to blow me."

"You figured correctly," Cas agrees.

"And, uh, you know." Dean scratches the back of his neck. "I was right that you liked it. And it's better to watch shit with people who like it."

"You never asked me if I liked it."

"But you pay _attention_," Dean blurts. "Even if you hated it you'd sit there and watch it and listen! All the people who hang around me are like children, no attention span, and you're like an actual fucking adult who I actually know who can actually watch a movie made before 1980." And then he flushes, and he takes another long drink of his soda.

Castiel gazes at him.

"Christ, Cas." Dean shakes his head. "Yet again, we have a nice time and then you have to go and make things weird."

Castiel raises his eyebrows. "When have we _ever_ had a nice time that I made weird?"

"That time!" Dean insists. "When we – did – the thing, and then you were like 'womp womp womp' and I was like, 'Wow, Cas, you suck.'"

"That never happened."

"Well, I _know_ I told you that you suck."

"Most likely, yes." Castiel stands up and brushes a few stray popcorn kernels off of his lap. "I should be going now."

Dean stands up quickly. "You could stay for dinner! If you wanted. What time is it?" He checks his phone. "Oh. Not even four. I guess it's early for dinner. So never mind. That was stupid."

Castiel wavers.

It is in this exact moment that he realizes that he has critically misjudged his own objectivity and that he is probably emotionally unfit for this job. He realizes this because he _should_ tell Dean that he must return to his small studio apartment and complete his reports and prepare for the rest of the week and answer his emails and cook himself dinner; and instead, he wants nothing more than to kill a few hours doing absolutely nothing with Dean. The desire to stay is so intense that it feels almost like a physical ache.

He is so torn that he is stands there stupidly not saying anything while Dean waits for him to respond.

"I can stay for a little while," he finally says. "If you wanted to watch another movie."

"That depends." Dean raises one eyebrow and narrows his eyes. "Have you, or have you _not_ seen Jaws?"

"I've read the Wikipedia page," Castiel answers. "So essentially, yes."

"Okay, then sit your ass down, wise guy. We're watching Jaws."

"Don't I get a say?"

"Absolutely not."

…..


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: _Oh, my cherished chickadees. Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews. And look at me, bringing you a new chapter in only one week, like a normal person who writes at a reasonable speed! I am currently unemployed (yaaaaay) so I have a lot of time, and in fact I am moving back in with my parents until I get a job (yaaaaaaaaaaaay) so I'll have even more time in the coming weeks. Of course, my schedule will be peppered with drinking, staring into the abyss, and shouting to the heavens, "WHAT IS MY LIFE? WHAT AM I DOING? WHAT IS EVEN THE POINT?" until I go hoarse. _

_Seriously though, you guys have been a bright spot in what is a particularly trying point of my life. Thanks for writing such nice comments, and making me feel like I'm not just a useless sack of meat. _

_Your reward for reviewing this chapter is that you will get ten - nay, ELEVEN - old waterbottles that I don't want anymore! And to sweeten the deal, I will throw in EVERY PENNY that I have found underneath/behind/inside of all my furniture. Hurry, folks - only while supplies last!_

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Three months ago, ten stories underground in Washington, D.C. **

Castiel sits at his desk, transcribing an audio recording of a phone call that likely has no significance to anyone except a few people in the Colombian government. It's tedious work, and frankly he could have delegated it to a junior employee, but he doesn't have much else to do at the moment. He hates leaving work early. The office is where his life is; his apartment is just a place to sleep.

Uriel stops by his desk and taps him on the shoulder.

Castiel pauses the recording and takes off his headphones. "Yes?"

"Did you hear about DW?"

Castiel freezes.

Unbeknownst to his coworkers, and entirely outside the bounds of appropriate conduct, Castiel has been keeping tabs on Dean Winchester. Ever since Dean was moved to Low Priority, Castiel has watched him stumble his way through the tabloids, noted who he associates with and the statements he makes, used Trust manpower to check in on him occasionally. He scours celebrity gossip rags every week in the hopes of seeing some change, some good news. In the privacy of his apartment, he even watched the leaked sex tape of Dean and celebrity socialite Bela Talbott (although he immediately felt ashamed of it). Uriel doesn't know this – he _can't_ know this, or Castiel could be demoted.

So as cluelessly as possible, he says, "Dean… Winchester?"

"He was driving drunk," Uriel tells him. "High as a kite, too, four supermodels in the car with him – and he crashed headfirst into a jersey barrier."

Castiel's heart seizes in his chest, and for a second there is no air in his lungs.

The words are clamped tight in his throat.

"Is – he –"

"Oh, he's fine," Uriel scoffs. "The drunks always are. Couple of the girls have whiplash, but other than that they're all fine, so he got lucky there too." He shakes his head. "You really dodged a bullet there, man. Thank God they moved him to Low Priority. Can you imagine if he was still your assignment?"

Castiel still can't quite breathe. He could have died. He could have _died_.

"Hey, are you okay?" Uriel cocks his head at him.

"Yes, I – I just can't believe it," he manages to say.

Uriel laughs. "You really haven't been on the internet lately, have you? The man's a trainwreck these days. Honestly, it was only a matter of time." He claps Castiel on the shoulder. "Anyway, just thought you'd like to know how close you came to having a complete dud on your hands. Thank God for bureaucracy." And he walks away.

Castiel spends the next 24 hours compiling information and forming a plan of attack.

He nearly flies out to California until he realizes how stupid that would be. What would he do – show up in Dean's hospital room with a get well card? As far as Dean knows, Castiel is a complete stranger. He focuses on what he can do here.

The next day, he walks into the Chairman's office.

The Chairman looks up from his computer and smiles. "Castiel! What can I do you for?"

"We need to move Dean Winchester back to High Priority," Castiel says, "and we need to intervene."

The Chairman leans back in his chair slightly, and his smile fades. "Now, why on earth would we do that?"

"Two days ago, he was in a car crash – DUI," Castiel explains. "Sam Winchester is now looking for a handler for him. Someone to essentially nanny him and keep him from getting into trouble. If we don't put one of our people in there, a Syndicate agent will be hired."

The Chairman shrugs. "So? He's no good to them like this. He's no good to _us_ like this, Castiel. He's out of control."

"But he _won't be_ if we step in!" Castiel argues. "This is the perfect opportunity to intervene! A handler would have complete control over him. We can get him back into shape for the political track. He's at a low point in his life, when perhaps he will be open to change, and we'll have Sam's complete cooperation. _And,_ the crash sets him up perfectly for a redemption narrative in the media. He can still turn this around – you know this, sir, you've seen me turn around worse."

The Chairman rubs his chin. "But is it worth the expense?"

"He will be an excellent candidate. He's handsome, rich, young. He helped run one of the wealthiest companies in the world. _We _can make him a humanitarian. _We_ can make him trustworthy. He can win."

The Chairman still rubs his chin.

Castiel steps closer to his desk. "This is also the closest we will get to Sam. Ever. It's not a good surveillance position, but whoever handles Dean will necessarily gain Sam's trust."

The Chairman eyes him.

Castiel swallows.

"Let me guess," the Chairman says slowly. "You think you're the man for the job."

"Yes," Castiel says firmly. "I do."

The Chairman looks at him for another long moment.

Then he turns back to his computer. "Write up a proposal. Detailed. I want schedules for the next five years. I'm not going to just unilaterally sign off on something this big, Castiel – it's going to have to go through the process."

"Yes sir," Castiel breathes. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate this opportunity."

The Chairman flaps a hand. "Alright, that's enough. Just get it done."

For the next three months, Castiel is awash in meetings and constantly giving presentations. He lobbies for his plan through level after level of committee and board and senior executives. Time after time, his proposal is nearly killed, but he battles back from the edge. And finally, finally, he is given the green light and his budget is approved.

Of course, by this time a handler has already been hired. Or, as it turns out, _four_ have already been hired. This is all accounted for – it is simple enough to blackmail or bribe someone into leaving their job. But to Castiel's luck, the fourth hire leaves of his own volition. A Trust agent slips Sam his name, and Castiel gets the interview.

He knows that if this job ends badly, his career at the Trust is over. He doesn't care. He doesn't care, because secretly he knows that Dean's life is worth much more than his career. He has always known it, but he was too selfish to admit it.

Now, he understands all too clearly what his cowardice could cost.

So he's gone all in – the biggest gamble of his life, with everything on the table. And he can almost hear the _tick tick tick_ of the spinning roulette wheel – or is it the metallic click of a gun barrel spinning in a revolver, a different game of roulette?

He doesn't know.

It's all up to Dean now.

…

**Present day, 9:00 the next morning**

Dean staggers out to the car. He fumbles with the door handle and, after several tries, manages to open it. He slings an arm over the top of the door and hangs onto it for balance.

"Listen," he says, "iss not what you think."

"I think you're drunk," Castiel says coldly.

"But I didn't drunk this morning!" Dean exclaims. "I'm still drunk from last night!"

Castiel sighs. "Go back inside, Dean."

"How is this my fault?" Dean asks indignantly. "Dawn n' the girls showed up, what was I s'posed to do?"

"Drink less."

Dean scowls. "You're a _dick_, Caztiel. You're a dickhead dick and you – you look like – like your face was hit with a ugly stick. That was held by a ugly wizard who cursed you with the forbidden spell of avada ke-UGLY."

"Go."

Dean sags against the door and whines. "Pleaaaaase, Cas! Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase!"

"No."

Dean pushes himself up from the door and glowers at Cas. "Fine. Go ahead and leave. I'm gonna go fuck some people who _aren't_ you and they're gonna have an awesome time and you're gonna be home alone beating off to some VHS recording of _60 Minutes_ or whatever the fuck kind of boring shit jingles your bells. So think about THAT." And he slams the car door shut and stomps back to the house.

Predictably, just as Castiel puts the car into gear, his phone rings. He briefly considers not answering.

"What is it, Dean?"

"You're not even _attractive_. You think you're some hot shit just because I wanted to bang you. But I bang _everybody._ I would fuck a goddamn bag of trash."

"Goodbye."

He hangs up.

…

**9:00 am, the next morning**

"Good morning," Castiel says.

"Morning." Dean buckles his seatbelt, and glances at Cas. He's quiet, wary. "Sorry about yesterday."

"Apology accepted." Cas starts the car.

"I half expected you not to show up today," Dean admits. "Wouldn't've blamed you."

Cas gives him a light smile. "You can't get rid of me that easily."

Dean doesn't smile back, but he gives a small nod.

They go clothes shopping at a department store. Castiel picks out all of the clothes, rejecting any suggestion from Dean, and herds him into a large dressing room to try them on. However, Dean balks when Castiel closes the door behind them.

"What are you doing?" he exclaims. "Go wait outside, you pervert!"

Castiel rolls his eyes. "It's easier this way. Do you really want to have to walk out and show me every single item of clothing?"

"Fine," Dean grumbles, pulling off his t-shirt. "But you better not be ogling me."

Castiel picks out the first ensemble for him to try on – a black tee, a hunter green flannel button-up to go over it, and heavy denim jeans.

Dean looks at himself skeptically in the mirror. "What the hell are these clothes for, anyway? Are we going undercover in Portland?"

"You'll find out later," Castiel says. He hands him a different shirt set – this time a brown tee and a blue plaid overshirt.

"It's the middle of summer!" Dean protests. "I'm gonna die of heat stroke!" He puts the shirts on anyway, but he curls his upper lip in a disgusted sneer in the mirror. "_Plaid?_ I'm not a lumberjack, Cas."

Cas tugs the shirtfront straight and buttons it halfway up, then rolls up the sleeves to three quarter length. "You look good in this one," he says. "The cut suits you."

Dean looks at him sidelong. "I look _good_, do I? Sexy, even? I thought you were unaffected by my boyish charms."

Cas gives him a deprecating look. "I'm straight, Dean, not blind. I can tell that you're an attractive man, I'm just not attracted _to_ you. Now try on these pants." He hands him a slightly different pair of jeans.

Dean complies with a grumble, unbuttoning his pants and kicking them off.

And perhaps it's a little bit of revenge for yesterday that Castiel waits until he has stripped to say, "This might be a good time to talk about your sex life."

"My –" Dean clutches the new jeans over his groin in a show of dramatic modesty, and looks outraged. "My sex life?! I'm in my underwear! This is a terrible time to talk about ANYTHING!"

Castiel sits on the fitting room bench and cocks his head. "Have you always been attracted to men, or only since your father died?"

"Okay, let's back this crazy train right the fuck up, Sigmund!" Dean rants. "First of all, I'm not fucking dudes because I miss my dad, you _freak!_"

Castiel purses his lips thoughtfully. "We'll revisit that later. What's your second point?"

"_Second_ of all," Dean says forcefully, "I told you, I'm straight. I'm not attracted to men!"

Castiel stares.

"What?" Dean barks.

"How –" Castiel rubs his temple, still staring at Dean. "But… you have sex with men. Constantly."

"Sure, I fuck guys!" Dean replies. "But I'm not _attracted_ to them. They're just a means to an end. I don't look at a dude and think, 'Damn, that's a hot piece of ass.' Just looking at a dude does nothing for me. I don't get off from gay porn. It's just that when you're playing hide-the-zucchini with a bunch of random bodies, variety is the spice of life."

Castiel is still completely baffled.

"This isn't that complicated," Dean insists. "Haven't you ever slept with a chick you're not attracted to?"

"No!" Castiel exclaims. "Why would I do that?!"

"To have _sex!_" Dean groans exasperatedly. "Okay. Look. You're celibate, but you still jack off, right?"

"Yes."

"Are you attracted to your hand, just because it gets you off?" he asks. "No. It's just your goddamn hand. You use it because it's _there_ and it feels good. It's the same with dudes! They're there and they'll do stuff that feels good. Trust me, gay dudes are really good at blow jobs. Better than most chicks."

"But you – you also _perform_ fellatio," Cas stammers. "You offered to give me a handjob. That's not someone getting you off."

Dean shrugs. "Getting other people off sometimes gets me off. Sometimes I like to go down on people. Whether you have a dick or not is incidental."

Castiel narrows his eyes. "So you're saying that you repeatedly and persistently propositioned me for sex, but you're not attracted to me?"

Dean grins. "I like a challenge!"

"I do not believe you," Castiel mutters.

"Hey, I never said I wasn't a dirtbag." Dean scratches the back of his neck. "It's kinda what I was trying to say when I was being a drunk asshole yesterday – just because I wanted to have sex with you doesn't mean I'm attracted to you. I'm not really attracted to you." And then he flushes red, and he adds, "I mean, physically."

Castiel is still staring at him, and part of him has this perverse urge –

He knows that he could call Dean's bluff, if he had the nerve. Locked together in this fitting room, the confined space – all he would have to do is grab Dean and pin him against the wall, and he can already imagine how Dean would react – Cas's hands gripping his shoulders and his body pressed flush against him with startling force, half undressed, slightly breathless, and Cas growls in his ear _Try again_ – oh yes, he would react – and pressed that close, it would be impossible to hide, impossible to deny – but then Dean's caveat actually registers:

_I'm not really attracted to you. I mean, _physically.

Dean is still redfaced, waiting for a response.

Castiel's face heats with chagrin. Dean is trying to say something meaningful, he's trying, and here Castiel is contemplating a ruthless violation of his trust just to assuage his own ruffled ego. Have his years in the field made him this callous? He clears his throat and pushes aside his damaging idea.

"I – understand," he manages to say. "This is an… interesting development. But it may make my next request easier."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Next request?"

"You need to stop having sex with men."

Dean blinks. "What?"

Castiel sighs. "If you hold yourself out to the public as straight, you can only have sex with women. If you have homosexual sex, you will be excoriated by both sides of the aisle as a hypocrite. If you would prefer to continue having sex with both men and women, you will need to identify as bisexual. Although somewhat controversial, it's the most common label, and I believe it is the only one that –"

"I'm not bi," Dean snaps. "Can't I just sneak it on the side, or something? This is America, for godsakes, land of the free. I'm pro-gay, or pro-LGB… T… Q… RSTUV or whatever the fuck it's called now. It's not like I'm gonna be some Republican homophobe tapping my foot under the bathroom stall!"

Castiel shakes his head. "No. It will be discovered. Sex sells. It will become a scandal, whether you like it or not."

"Fine." Dean crosses his arms and glares, nostrils flared. "I'll stop banging dudes."

"And," Castiel continues, "you can only have one sexual partner a month."

Dean's eyes bug out of his head. "What?!"

"You can sleep with the same partner as many times as you like, but you cannot sleep with two different women in the same month."

"Why not?" Dean demands. "Politicians sleep around all the time, Cas! This isn't 1957!"

Castiel stands up, rifles through the pile of shirts, and starts to pick out a new set. "You're known in the media for being aggressively promiscuous," he explains. "If you want to convince the public you've changed, you need to at least _appear_ as though you're interested in monogamy. Part of that is seeing one woman at a time, and for at least a few dates. The quota of one woman a month is just to make things simple for you."

"This is slut shaming!" Dean exclaims.

Castiel glares at him. "No it's not. Don't appropriate terms that don't belong to you. You have suffered very few reprisals for your prolific sexual history." He hands Dean a gray tee and a red and black plaid flannel. "Now, put the pants on and try on these."

Dean huffs and snatches the shirts from him. "You're just trying to make me celibate so you'll have somebody to be all sad and repressed with."

"I'm not sad or repressed," Castiel says.

Dean yanks on his pants and chuckles. "Definitely repressed, dude. Never even slept with an ugly chick."

"I didn't say that," Castiel retorts. "I just don't sleep with people I'm not attracted to. Sex is effort enough without compounding the workload."

"Sex isn't an _effort_," Dean scoffs. "Who have you been fucking? Sex is fun! It's easy!"

"Not to me," Castiel counters. "The only person who ever made sex seem _easy_ to me was –" He stops short.

Dean looks at him. "Who?" He pulls off his shirt. "Spill the beans!"

"My, um." Castiel turns slightly and wishes that he had not trapped himself in this fitting room. "My wife Meg."

It's Dean's turn to stare. "You're _married?_"

Castiel colors. "No, we're not married. Anymore."

Dean exhales and puts a hand to his chest. "Oh, okay, so your ex."

"No, we didn't –" Castiel's tongue seems clumsy, the words fumbling. He's never been good at speaking about this. "I didn't divorce her. She's dead."

Dean's eyes widen, and he steps closer to Cas. "Oh, Christ, I'm so sorry."

"It's alright. It was eight years ago," Cas says. "I've gotten some distance now."

"How did she die?"

Castiel swallows. "It's complicated."

Dean's brow furrows slightly, but he doesn't press the issue. Instead, he pulls on the gray tee and says, "So you've been celibate since she died?"

Castiel blinks. "What makes you think that?"

Dean shrugs. "You've been celibate eight years, she died eight years ago. Connect the dots."

Castiel moves to turn away, but there's nowhere to really turn in here. So he sits back down on the bench behind Dean. "It's… connected, but. That's also complicated. I didn't become celibate because she died."

Dean pulls on the red and black plaid, and checks himself out in the mirror. "And how long ago was that whole torture thing?"

Castiel hesitates.

Dean catches his eye in the mirror. He looks evenly at Cas.

He _knows_. Somehow, he knows.

"About… eight years," Castiel admits.

"Huh." Dean peels off the flannel and turns around, gazing carefully at Cas. "Sounds like you didn't tell me the whole story there."

"I didn't want…" Castiel sighs in frustration and puts his head in his hands. "I don't want to scare you. What happened with me won't ever happen again. I've made sure of it."

"By not having sex?" Dean asks, stepping closer, sharp-eyed. "By not letting anyone get too close?"

It's too pointed, a jab into an old wound, and it hurts more than it should. Without thinking Castiel lashes back. "You're one to talk," he snaps. "Has fucking the world gotten you _closer_ to anyone?"

Dean's nostrils flare, and his gaze darkens. "So here it is," he growls. "What you really think of me."

Castiel stands up, fists at his sides. "What I _think_ is that I have to fight to get you to tell me anything real, yet you try and judge me for not disclosing every minute irrelevant detail of my past!"

"It's not irrelevant!" Dean snarls back. "It's who you are!"

"That's irrelevant!" Castiel shouts. "_I_ am irrelevant to this process!"

Dean grits his teeth and reddens. "The only reason I'm _doing_ this stupid _process_ is because I trust you!" he barks. "You are probably the only person in the entire world I would fucking – fucking – let into my _dressing room_ to put clothes on me like a goddamn Ken doll! So who you are matters a _whole fucking lot_ to ME, Cas!"

The two of them stand there, almost chest to chest, glaring at each other, breathing too loudly.

Finally, Cas says angrily, "I don't like the red plaid as well as the blue plaid."

"I like the red plaid," Dean growls.

"It doesn't fit you right!"

"It fits me fine!"

"Put it back on. I'll show you!"

Dean grabs the shirt from where it was balled up on the floor and yanks it on. He buttons it quickly.

Castiel spins him toward the mirror and grabs the bottom edges of the shirt, and shoves them into Dean's pants. Dean yelps and jumps forward.

"Look!" Castiel jerks around the fabric sitting at his waistline until it sits smooth. "It's _too tight_, it's going to come untucked faster, and you could burst a seam!"

"Stop manhandling me!" Dean exclaims. "Fine, just get the blue one then!"

Cas starts to unbutton the shirt.

"I can do it," Dean grumbles.

Cas steps back and watches him.

"You gotta – you gotta act like a human," Dean mutters, chin tucked into his chest. "I told you before, it's a two way street. If I'm gonna trust you with my secrets, you gotta reciprocate."

"_Why?_" Cas asks, exasperated.

"Because that's what friends do!" Dean blurts.

Cas blinks.

Dean looks away and peels off his shirt. "Whatever. I know we're not really friends, but can you just play along?"

"No," Cas says. "I don't want to pretend. I want to be friends."

Dean flushes red and clenches the shirt in his fist.

Cas feels a tight knot in his throat, and he presses it down.

"Or rather, I want to be a friend who runs your life," he amends. "And you do everything he says, and you don't complain about it."

Dean looks at him, and his face clears. "So a Dom, then? Kinky."

Cas snorts.

Dean smirks.

"You have four more shirts to try on," Castiel says.

"Yes, Master. I am your humble slave."

"You know that being submissive requires you to actually follow instructions, don't you?"

"Eh, getting punished is half the fun. Why else do you think I fuck up so much?"

"I assumed it was lack of self-control."

"Nah, it's all a sex game. Get with the program, Cassafrass!"

…..


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: _My outstanding oleanders! Thank you so much for all your comments on last chapter. I appreciate every one of you and hope that you each find surprise money in a pair of pants you haven't worn in a long time. This chapter is... freakishly long. I'm sorry! It had to be! But I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. Maybe just have a snack first, or something? Make sure you're wearing your comfy sweatpants and bring a waterbottle, because it's gonna be a long haul. I also may make small edits to it later; I probably should have sat on it for another day and re-read it, but honestly I HATE sitting on a finished chapter and I'm terribly impatient and that's why we can't have nice things. _

_Your reward for reviewing this chapter is that I will personally hunt down Jensen Ackles and Misha Collins and kidnap them, and force them to reenact scenes from your favorite Destiel fanfictions at knifepoint.* Sure, they'll be mildly traumatized, but I think the terror will add to the pathos of the acting! Act now to reserve your spot in the scene schedule!_

_*The legal representatives of TheCouchCarrot would like to make it clear that she will do no such thing, as she already has several restraining orders and is currently on knife-having probation. The legal representatives of TheCouchCarrot are cooperating with the proper authorities to ensure the safety of Mr. Ackles and Mr. Collins. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Friday morning, 8:45 a.m.**

"I still think this is a bad idea," Louise says.

Castiel sighs. "Yes. As you've stated, several times. It's going to be fine."

The two of them are standing in Dean's impressive foyer, the curtains thrown open to let the morning sunlight glow on the white marble. Louise is wearing her usual knee-length skirt and pastel cardigan, but Castiel is not in his trademark business suit. Instead, he's wearing jeans and a dark blue flannel button up.

Louise wrings her hands. "If you miss a single check in, I'm going to call the National Guard."

A slight smile curves on Cas's cheek. "You really care for him, don't you?"

"I don't care for him, I _worry_ for him," Louise snaps. "That boy is going to be the death of me."

"Who, me?" Dean calls from across the room.

Louise's head whips to where Dean is standing in the doorway; Castiel nods hello.

Dean moseys over to them slowly, relishing the pleasure of catching gossipers in the act. "I'm thirty six years old, Louise. I don't know if I'm technically a boy anymore."

Louise coughs and straightens her cardigan hem. "You are still a boy relative to me. I am ancient and you will never catch up."

Dean grins. "Don't be so sure about that. I'm pretty sure you stopped aging a decade ago. One day I'll be hobbling in a walker and you'll still be running this joint." Then he claps his hands together and rubs them. "Alright, so why are we having a secret pow-wow without Dean?"

"I was just confirming the details of our trip with Louise," Castiel says.

Dean's eyebrows jump up. "Trip?"

"Trip," Cas confirms.

"I can't just go on a trip," Dean argues. "I have, like… appointments! And… things! Important things I can't miss!"

Castiel smiles. "Hence, Louise. She's cleared your schedule."

Flannel. Canned goods. Trip. The dots start to connect in Dean's head, and a picture begins to emerge. "Oh Christ," he groans, "are we going camping?"

"In a way," Cas answers.

"You've gotta be shitting me!" Dean exclaims. "Camping, Cas?! I'm a city slicker! I don't do nature! And YOU – you live in a suit! What do you know about camping?! We're gonna die in the woods!"

Cas takes him by the shoulder and steers him toward the door. "We'll be fine."

"Can we at least bring Jeff?" Dean pleads. "And a catering truck or two?"

"No."

"Louise!" Dean calls desperately over his shoulder as Cas forces him out the door. "Louise, send pizza! You find our location and you send us pizza, you hear me?!"

"Goodbye, Dean," Louise calls.

…

It takes several hours to get to their destination – first a few boring hours getting to the middle of nowhere, punctuated by a single rest stop (where Castiel makes Dean change into his practical flannel and jeans), then a lengthy drive up into the mountains, a winding narrow highway yielding to a steep dirt switchback. They stop at a tiny gas station convenience store to get milk and eggs, and then leave the last vestiges of civilization behind. The air is cool and damp and the trees are dense, a green canopy blocking out the sunlight except in small bright trickles.

They come to a private road, and drive even further into the forest, until they come to a fern-lined driveway and a small log cabin. There's a woodshed out front and just to right of the cabin is the edge of a deep ravine.

Castiel parks the car. "Here we are."

"A cabin," Dean says flatly. "Great. Eighty two percent of all murders happen in remote cabins."

"Only in the movies." Castiel gets out of the car and pops the trunk. "Help me unload."

Dean sighs loudly and follows, grabbing a duffel bag and the cooler.

The inside of the cabin is dark and cold. Dean is actually grateful for the warmth of his layered shirts. Castiel opens a breaker box and flips a switch, and the lights flicker on, revealing a fairly nice set up: the cabin is a single square room with a ladder to a loft up above. In the front left corner is a medicine cabinet and fridge; in the front right corner, a sink, oven, and cabinets, with a card table and metal folding chairs tucked off to the side; the back half is centered around the large chimney and fireplace, with a raggedy sofa, a coffee table, a thick rug on the floor and a stack of quilts. On the mantle are some books and framed photos of strangers.

"The cabin has electricity, but no running water," Cas tells him. "The river water has to be boiled before it's safe to drink, so I brought several gallons of drinking water. But for washing dishes, we'll just bring up water from the river and boil it."

"Where's the river?" Dean asks.

"Just down at the bottom of the ravine," Cas says nonchalantly. "There are steps."

Dean groans. "Of course! Just at the bottom of the _ravine!_ And where's the toilet, then? Is it just a hollow stump that used to belong to an angry raccoon?"

"I'll show you where the toilet is, and how to use it," Cas says, "but first I want to get a fire going. It's freezing in here." He looks sidelong at Dean. "Have you ever built a fire?"

"Of course not!" Dean scoffs. "I grew up in California, we didn't have a fireplace. And I sure as hell don't mess with the fireplaces at home!"

"It's not difficult." Cas takes him by the elbow and pulls him toward the fireplace. "The first thing you have to do check is the flue. If the flue is closed, the cabin will fill with smoke…"

It turns out that this is to be some sort of learning experience for Dean. Castiel spends the day instructing him to do all kinds of things he never thought he'd have to know. He shows him how to build a fire, how to haul water up from the river, how to use the fancy cedar outhouse (it involves scooping loose peat into a pit), how to hook up the sun shower (a bag of water that warms in the sun, that can be rigged up to pour down on you), how to organize the food in the pantry and where all the dishes are. He points out the hiking trails nearby and shows him where the maps and fishing and hiking gear are stored. There are old mattresses up in the loft, and they throw their sleeping bags up there as well, and after a quick dinner of sandwiches they finally, finally, _finally_ settle in for the night.

Castiel puts on a kettle of water to boil. "Do you want tea?"

Dean digs through the duffle bag Cas packed him and scrunches his nose. "Tea is gross. Got any whiskey?"

"I do. I brought it for you."

Dean finds a pair of slippers and raises them triumphantly. "Aha! You packed well, dude, you packed well."

Castiel brings Dean the bottle of whiskey and a glass, and comes to sit by the fire. It's warm and toasty in the cabin by now, but he grabs a quilt anyway and brings it to the sofa.

"What is this place?" Dean asks, walking over.

"It's a cabin," Cas answers. "I thought that was obvious by now."

"No, I mean what _is_ this place?" Dean sits down next to Cas, uncorks the whiskey and pours himself a generous glass. "This is not some rental. You _know_ this place. This some sort of Trust safehouse or something, where you hide key witnesses?"

Cas unfolds the quilt. "It doesn't belong to the trust. It's mine."

Dean looks at him and sips the whiskey. "Why did you bring me here?"

Cas doesn't meet his eyes, but looks away to the fire. "Several reasons. One being, to talk."

"We could have talked in my mansion," Dean points out. "Where there are flushing toilets."

"I feel more secure out here," Cas says. "There's no cell service out here, it's so small that it's easy to sweep, there are no neighbors, no staff –"

"No _faucets_," Dean grumbles.

The kettle whistles. Castiel gets up and makes his tea, turns out the kitchen area light, and returns to the sofa with his mug. It's darker in the room now, the firelight wavering and flickering across the round wooden beams of the walls.

"There's a reason I don't think your house is secure," he says, settling back into his corner. He pulls the quilt over his knees and cradles the mug in his hands.

"You think one of my staff is a mole," Dean suggests.

"No. Despite your altercation with Miguel, I don't think any of them are Syndicate. They've been all thoroughly vetted by the Trust."

Dean blinks. "But then… why?"

"Dean." Cas looks him in the eye, hesitant. "There's someone else. Someone who… is close to you…."

"Who?" Dean demands. "Who are you talking about?"

Castiel takes a deep breath. "It's Sam."

Dean stares at him.

Castiel tightens his hands on his mug. "Sam works for the Syndicate."

Dean stares still, unblinking. For a moment, his heart doesn't beat, and then –

he bursts out laughing.

Castiel frowns. "This isn't funny."

"It's hilarious!" Dean laughs. "Sam's not a _criminal_, Cas, he's the most self-righteous bleeding heart do-gooder on the planet! He ran away from home to do _charity work_ in Cambodia! Plus he's rich as shit, richer than me by now. Why the hell would he work for some secret shadow spy organization that goes against everything he believes in? You've got this all wrong."

"He's not in it for money," Cas says. "In fact, he's the one supplying the money. What the Syndicate has to offer him is power. Political power."

Dean's eyebrows jump up, and he sits forward. "You think – you think they've promised to get him into Congress?"

"They got him onto the city council," Cas says evenly. "I can't imagine why they wouldn't follow through." Then he looks away from Dean, towards the fire, and his eyes grow distant. "The Trust considers him a threat. However, now that I've met him for myself…. I'm not sure he knows who he's really dealing with."

"Aha, yes! Someone tricked him!" Dean exclaims. "Probably told him he was giving money to orphaned koalas or some shit like that."

Cas doesn't say anything. He just presses his mouth tight and stares into the fire.

Dean can tell Cas is holding back, that he knows more than he's telling, but something – something scared inside of him doesn't want to know. He wants to believe that Sam is innocently mixed up in all this, because if Sam's not – if he _knows_ – then he's not the same person that Dean has been staring in the face for the past thirty odd years. He's a stranger. A doppelganger. A silhouette with a question mark.

"I called him, a few days ago," Dean says. "Left him a message. He never called back. Probably just deleted it without listening to it."

"He's a good man," Cas says quietly. "He's misguided, but he cares about you very much."

"Then why didn't he call?"

"You hurt him. Badly." Cas glances at him sidelong. "He's trying to protect himself now."

The words sink in.

Dean's chest feels like it's snapping apart from the inside, rib by rib, and his nose stings. "Christ," he breathes. "I really fucked it up, didn't I?"

Cas takes a sip of his tea. "Give him time. Give yourself time. You won't be able to fix things with Sam until you get your own life in order."

"I just…" Dean squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. "Everything I said to him… Oh Jesus, I'm such a piece of shit." And then he quickly gulps down the rest of his whiskey and pours himself some more, telling himself that the watering in his eyes is from the scouring burn down his throat. "Although I guess, if he is some kind of evil agent working for Cobra Commander, I shouldn't feel that bad…"

Cas reaches out and takes the bottle from him. "_This_," he says, "is not going to fix things with Sam."

"Nah," Dean groans, drinking more quickly from his glass. "But it'll fix me. For tonight, anyway."

Castiel peers at the bottle, examining the label. "Strange. It appears to be ordinary whiskey, not a magical problem-solving elixir."

"Hardy har har," Dean retorts. "Maybe if you'd let loose and get drunk once in a while, you'd see the appeal."

"Maybe if you'd stay sober, you'd _stop_ seeing the appeal," Cas returns primly.

"Oh come on," Dean cajoles. "Have a drink with me, this once."

Cas sets the bottle on the table and takes his tea back up, sipping it carefully. "I don't drink anymore."

Dean sighs. "Lemme guess. Eight years ago?"

Cas pointedly continues drinking his tea.

"Okay, so it's a security thing," Dean guesses, scooting closer, sitting forward, closing in for the kill. "You can't get drunk, can't let your guard down, gotta be on alert. But you said it yourself – this place is fucking _safe_, Cas! Nothing's gonna happen out here. There's no one else around for miles, no bugs, no way to track us. Plus, I'm here to make sure you don't choke on your own vomit or fall down the ravine! It's a perfect set up!"

Cas purses his lips and looks at the whiskey bottle, but he doesn't say anything.

Dean, however, has always been good at the hard sale.

"This is a freak circumstance – an alignment of the planets. And it could be your only opportunity to get drunk for another _eight_ _years_," he emphasizes. "Do you really wanna pass this up?"

Cas eyes him suspiciously. "_If_ I did," he says slowly, "I'd want to run another security check first. And build up the fire. _And_, you would have to say sober."

Dean makes an exaggerated wince. "Well, I mean, I just chugged an entire glass. But I wouldn't drink any more, I swear!"

Cas gazes at the bottle.

Dean grins.

…

Two hours and five drinks later, Cas is completely hammered and _literally_ under the table.

"This. Did not solve my problems," he slurs. "In fack, I have more problems. Namely – why is this table here?"

Dean laughs so hard his sides hurt. "Holy shit, you are SUCH a lightweight!"

"I don' drink!" Cas protests. "My liver is still soft!"

"C'mere. C'mere." Dean hauls him out from under the table and gets him back on the couch. Cas flops like a rag doll, with his limbs splayed every which way, and slumps into the cushions with a groan. He sits against the arm of the sofa and flings his legs over Dean's lap and mutters something that sounds like German.

Dean grins at him. "Man, I didn't think you'd actually do it. You're actually wasted." He leans in against Cas, maybe closer than he should, but it's okay, it feels comfortable. The fire has died down and it's warmer this way.

"I wanted to do it," Cas admits. "Haven' drunk in years. Sometimes I just wish…." He sighs and closes his eyes.

"Wish what?" Dean asks.

Cas's eyes open slowly, lazily. "Huh?"

"You said you wish something," Dean reminds him.

Cas smiles, a loose drunken smile. "I forget."

Dean just looks back at him and studies him. He's so different, like this – everything stiff and closed-off about him melted away to pliant warmth. His eyes are glassy and his cheeks are flushed, and his dark hair is mussed and flattened in unusual patterns. He's like a different person.

And then, out of nowhere, Cas's smile softens and he reaches up and smooths back a tuft of Dean's hair, and Dean realizes that Cas has been studying _him_.

The rooms spins a little, and Dean doesn't think it's from alcohol.

"Admit it," Dean says. "I'm hot. If you were gay, and you weren't celibate, you'd totally bang me."

Cas shakes his head vehemently. "NO! I do NOT sleep with clients!"

"Okay, if you were gay and you weren't celibate and I fired you," Dean amends. "You'd totally bang me."

Cas's face contorts, his upper lip and nose scrunching upward in concentration as he considers this. "Maybe," he says. "But it'd – it'd be very sad."

Dean frowns. "Sad?"

"Men are just – objects to you!" Cas exclaims. "I'd be all gay and pining for you and aksing – asksing you to dinner and you'd be like, 'Go away stupidface. Miley Cyrus is here.'"

"I wouldn't sleep with _Hannah Montana_, you perv!" Dean retorts indignantly.

Cas, as drunk as he is, manages a dubious look, his eyebrows as high as possible and his chin pressed down into his neck.

"Okay, so I slept with her _one_ _time_!" Dean exclaims.

Cas throws back his head and laughs.

"Shut up," Dean says, laughing, unable to stop himself.

"You're sick, Dean."

"_She_ came onto _me_! It wasn't my idea!"

Cas's laughter dies down, and he catches his breath and sighs contentedly. "M'gonna regret so much tomorrow."

"Regret what?" Dean asks. "You haven't done anything."

"But stuff I say. Embarrassing." He looks at Dean and sighs happily again. "An' sitting so close, an' saying stuff, an' getting drunk."

Dean looks down and realizes that they're still stacked together, Cas's legs over Dean's lap, Cas's arm outstretched behind Dean's shoulder.

"You don't seem too upset about it," he points out.

"Because DRUNKEN," Cas retorts. "I didn' think I'd get this drunk. Only five drinks, I had. Regret, Dean. Regret tomorrow…" He leans his head back and closes his eyes again.

"Hey now," Dean says, "no fair falling asleep."

"But it's so _gooood_," Cas groans. "I just wanna sleep like this…"

"I ain't your body pillow, buddy! You can't just fall asleep on me!"

Cas snorts, head still leaned back and his eyes still closed, and he says, "Is that what you say after sex?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" Dean quips.

Cas groans and smacks him lazily on the knee. "Bad. No. Bad Dean."

"I'm _not_ a _dog!_" Dean insists.

Cas lifts his head up slightly, and frowns in concentration. "Some… somewhere there, a joke about… humping my leg…"

Dean laughs in spite of himself, and hits Cas half-heartedly in the chest. "Fuck you!"

Cas laughs too, and tries to shift so that he can sit up. "Man, I'm so…" He struggles for a moment, and collapses back into the couch, and a worried expression starts to knit itself in his eyebrows. He grunts and claws at the back of the couch, trying to pull himself up.

"Here." Dean grabs his arm and pulls him forward, giving him the leverage he needs. "There you go."

But it's too late. "I shouldn't have done this," Cas groans, his eyes crossing slightly and his face going pale. "It's not safe. Fuck. Shit." He drags his legs off of Dean and groans again. "Can't move."

"Hey, we're fine," Dean assures him, "this place is totally secure. Remember? We're safe here."

But Cas is already breathing harder, and his eyes are roaming around the room, the pupils small and the whites gleaming. "If somebody comes here, right now. I can't. I can't!"

"Cas. Castiel." Dean grabs his hands and holds them tight, steady, solidness. "We are safe. You checked everything before you started drinking. You said it was safe. It's just us. It's okay."

Cas squeezes his eyes shut, his hands clutching Dean's, and his breath hiccups slightly. Sweat is beading on his forehead. "Not okay," he pants. "Mistake. Mistake. Mistake."

And the panic is starting to spread to Dean, too – not that they'll be attacked, but that Cas is starting to tailspin into something Dean has no idea how to handle. So he does the only thing he can think of, and asks, "What's your real name?"

Cas shudders and doesn't answer.

"What's your real name?" Dean asks again. "I need to know what to call you."

Cas sucks in a deep breath. "Jimmy. Jimmy was my name but – I'm Castiel, I'm Castiel now, call me Cas."

"Jimmy?" Dean repeats. "You don't like that name?"

Cas shakes his head and gulps in more air. "Never liked it. Weak name. Kid name. I use Jimmy for non… non-threat-en-ing… For making friends…"

"You think Castiel is too threatening?"

Cas huffs a weak laugh. "Yes. Foreign name. Biblical. I use it for… work, and business, and… scaring people."

"So, which am I?" Dean asks, an edge of humor in his voice. "Business, or someone you wanted to scare?"

Cas snorts. "I wanted to scare the shit out of you."

"Well, mission accomplished," Dean admits. "I was terrified the day I met you."

"I know," Cas sighs, and his grip on Dean's hands relaxes. "I would do it different now, but. It worked out."

"Yeah," Dean says. "It did."

"I was angry with you, at first," Cas admits. His voice is clearer now, less slurred. The adrenaline of his panic must be taking effect. "I knew something was wrong, but – from the outside – it looked like you were just… throwing your life away, and no one could stop you." He shakes his head. "Like, like watching a brilliant artist tear his masterpiece to shreds, just so he could roll the paper into joints…"

For some reason, his words cut deep into Dean.

"Yeah," he says quietly, "except it wasn't a masterpiece. It was a fraud. A delusion."

Cas gazes at him, and says, "I understand you better now. But I still don't understand why."

Dean looks down at their hands. Clasped together.

"Even if… John preferred Sam for CEO, instead of you," Cas continues, "Sam refused. He didn't take it. And everybody else assumed you would take the position in the first place. Why didn't you step up? Why did you leave?"

Dean exhales.

"I wish I were drunker," he says. "It would make this story easier to tell…"

…

…

**Six years ago**

The doctors leave Dad and Dean alone in the hospital room. They've just explained everything that happened in the surgery, and all the reasons why Dad had another heart attack, and now they've left Dean alone with him to talk about their options.

"Dad," Dean says. "No more excuses. You gotta retire."

Dad looks like a smaller man in his hospital bed. Pale, quiet. He looks like a regular person. Yesterday, he was acres tall and leagues wide, and he could clear a river in a single stride and fell a tree with his bare hands, and he was made up of so much myth and legend that he could never age and never die. Now, he has been stripped of his mythos. All that's left is an old man with a weak heart and tired eyes.

"I just wish I had more time," Dad sighs. "We're not ready."

"I can handle it," Dean says. He sits forward, and starts to reach toward his father, and then aborts the gesture. "I know you wanted Sam to take over, but he's, uh, he's hoeing his own road, I guess, typical Sammy, and I don't think he's gonna change his mind. Right now, anyways."

Dad nods and sighs again, heavier this time. "I… know. I spoke to him. He's made his decision, and I understand that."

"So, I know it's not ideal…" Dean flushes, and he hates himself for it. "But the good news is, I'm ready for it. I can do this, Dad, at least until Sam works this whole lawyer thing out of his system. I've been working under you for a long time. I know the company inside and out. And you'll be around to – to – consult, if there's any problem."

"Dean…" Dad hesitates, and looks toward the window. "We need to talk."

Dean blinks.

"I've been thinking this over…."

Time seems to slow down, like honey drizzling from a spoon, thick and viscous and suffocating.

"You're different… different from me. I know I tried to make you boys just like me – I thought that was how you were supposed to raise your kids, it's how my father raised me – but it was a mistake, I see that now. I think I made you both unhappy –"

"I'm not unhappy," Dean whispers. Or maybe he doesn't say it aloud, maybe he just thinks it, he isn't sure.

"But you're not like me. Never have been. Maybe it's from your mother. You relate to people in a way that I never have… you approach things differently…. And I think if you keep trying to be me, you're going to be miserable. It'll ruin your life. You're always going to be a square peg trying to fit into a round hole –"

There's a strange whining buzz in Dean's ears, growing louder and louder, drowning out his father's words.

"I don't know if I'm making any sense, here, I don't… I'm not good with this stuff. But I've given it a lot of thought, Dean, and… since Sam won't do it…"

He pauses,

and he says,

"I think the best thing… is to ask Zach Rutger to be the CEO."

Time stops completely.

Dean's mouth is dry. His throat is dry. Every ounce of his body is burning.

"Zach?" he croaks.

Dad nods. "He's been with the company almost since I founded it. He has the most experience."

Zach. Zach Rutger. Smarmy, conniving, slick as oil Zach Rutger – Dad would rather hand over his baby to _Zach fucking Rutger_ than let Dean run the company.

"That – is – wow," Dean manages to say. "Wow."

"I'm sorry I didn't talk to you sooner… I thought I'd have more time to work things out. He's the reason I've been trying to put off retirement. He's not ready yet. I know the doctors say I have to quit but I need to go back to work, first, just for a little while. I think I still need to wrap up a few things before I can hand it over… He'll need your help, in the beginning, but eventually –"

Working under Zach Rutger, CEO of Winchester Incorporated. The family business.

Dean stands up abruptly, and John's eyes follow him.

"Yeah, great, Dad," he says. "I'm actually starving, I'm gonna go get some soylent green from the cafeteria and whatever used motor oil they're trying to pass off as coffee. Need anything?"

"No," John answers.

"Alright, be back soon," Dean says.

He walks out of the hospital room and down to the elevator and takes it all the way down to the garage level, and he walks across the garage to his car and gets in the back seat.

He curls up tight so no one can see him and cries into his knees so hard that his whole body shakes.

_You're not like me. Never have been._

_Square peg trying to fit into a round hole._

Everything that he's ever feared his father secretly thought about him, laid bare in front of him. He's always known that he couldn't measure up to Dad but he thought at least he couldn't be faulted for trying. Now he sees what Dad has always seen – a pathetic imitator, a sycophant, a cheap knockoff, always trying so earnestly to copycat and failing.

The shame roils nauseatingly in his gut, and the tears burn hot on his skin.

After a few minutes, he catches his breath and tries to collect himself. He can't let himself fall apart, he can't afford it. He has to be rational about this. He collects himself enough to start thinking about what Dad really said.

_Since Sam won't do it… I think the best thing… is to ask Zach Rutger to be CEO._

_I need to go back to work, first. I still need to wrap up a few things before I can hand it over…_

If Dad goes back to work, he won't leave until they carry him out in a body bag.

And if Sam takes the job, Dad won't need to keep wrapping things up – he trusts Sam, Dean knows, the only reason he's clinging on is because he doesn't quite trust Zach not to fuck things up.

Dean wipes his face and gets out of the car.

He goes back into the hospital and goes to the bathroom, where he washes his face and calls Louise. He got some snot on his slacks and his sleeves, so he asks her to bring him some jeans and a new shirt. She's quick, gets there in just a few minutes, which makes Dean suspect she already had the clothes picked out.

She can tell something is wrong.

"How is he?" she asks, grasping Dean's hand. "What did the doctors say?"

"Too much stress," Dean answers, "he needs to take it easy. But he's gonna be fine."

She looks at Dean closely, and squeezes his hand. "You need some rest."

"I need _coffee_," Dean corrects her. "Lemme go change, and I'll give you what I'm wearing now…"

He changes, sends Louise on her way, and composes himself. He buys a cup of coffee. He gets back in the elevator and walks to his father's room, nodding and smiling at the nurses he recognizes on the way. He walks in the door and leads with a joke, as always. "Well, the cafeteria coffee is crap, but at least it's…"

He trails off.

Sam is here.

Sitting by John's bedside, both of them red-eyed, looking at Dean as though he's interrupting.

His composure evaporates.

John smiles at Dean and squints. "This may be the painkillers talking, but I could've sworn you were wearing a different shirt when you left."

Dean walks to his bedside, looking back and forth between Sam and Dad. "Yeah," he says absently, "I had Louise bring me some more comfortable clothes." He sets down his coffee and fixes his gaze on Sam. "Can I grab you for a second?"

Sam stands up. "What is it?"

John snorts. "He wants to talk about me."

"Yup," Dean says shortly, and he walks out of the room.

He hears Sam's footsteps following behind him.

Dean walks halfway down the hall, down to a visitor waiting area with big brightly lit fish tanks and cheaply upholstered tan sofas, before he spins around and addresses Sam. "The doctors said it's work," he tells him. "They said work is too much stress for him. He has to retire."

"I know," Sam replies. "I was just telling him that he needs to step back and focus on his health."

Dean paces by the fish tank and takes a deep breath. This is it – the big pitch. He plants himself in front of Sam. "You have to do it," he says. "You have to take over the company."

Sam gapes at him. "What? Dean, no. That's been off the table for years!"

"Not to Dad, it's not," Dean argues. "You have to do it, Sam, it's the only way he's gonna retire immediately. That's clear now. You're the only one he trusts –"

"I _explained_ it to him," Sam interrupts angrily, his jaw clenching tight and his fists curling at his sides. "I explained it all! I thought he understood, he _said_ he understood that I have my own life! I can't believe –"

"Look, you can be angry all you want, but that doesn't change the facts!" Dean steps closer, closing the gap, closing the sale. "Fact: Dad has to retire. He's going to leave the company to someone, and that someone _should_ be you. You know how to do this, Sam –"

"I can't just _drop_ everything, Dean!" Sam exclaims. There's an indignation in his voice that grates on Dean's ears, a childish outrage that sounds like a tantrum. "I just finished my second year of law school! After fighting tooth and nail to carve out my own fucking _tiny space in the world_ that belongs to me, just me and nobody else – I'm not gonna give that up just because Dad's being an idiot! I have a _life_, Dean, I have _career_ _goals_ that have nothing to do with the company –"

Dean grits his teeth. "You don't have to do it forever, Sam! This is just a temporary solution –"

"Until when, then?" Sam demands, his voice climbing in pitch, the outrage heightening. "When is Dad gonna be satisfied that I've done my due diligence? Five years? Ten? Twenty? Or maybe you want me to stay on until he _dies_, you know, just to give him the peace of mind –"

Dean snaps.

"I don't know!" he shouts. "I don't know, Sam, all I know is that I've tried, I've tried and I'm not good enough, and if you don't do this he's is going to work himself to death so can you just _please do this?!_"

Sam stares at him. "What are you talking about? What do you mean you've tried?"

Dean tries to hold it together, but he can't, and his desperation bleeds into his voice. "He doesn't want me to take over, Sam. He wants _you_," he says. This is all he has, his Hail Mary play, his last resort, and he's losing; he can feel it running between his fingertips like loose sand and he can barely breathe. "I need you to do this for me, Sammy, please, I know you won't do it for Dad, but can you please do this for me. I will never ask anything of you ever again, as long as I live." His voice cracks. "_Please_. I'm begging you."

Sam gazes at him, the struggle showing on his face. Dean can see that he's on the edge, he wants to say yes, he wants to help –

But then he says,

"I can't. I _won't_."

No.

Dean sucks in a ragged breath between his teeth. The air slices into his lungs like shards of glass. "What am I supposed to _do_, Sammy?"

"I don't know," Sam says softly. "All I know is, I can't be a part of it. This is not my problem to fix."

And then he turns and walks away from Dean.

Dean stands numbly by the fish tank.

He's never felt so completely helpless in his life as he does in this moment. There is nothing else he can do. That was his last shot. That was his _last shot_ at saving Dad, and it walked away from him without looking back.

He turns to the fish, and then he sits down. His mind is blank.

Then he hears shouting down the hall.

"_Don't call me Sammy!"_

Dean runs down the hall, pushes his way between the nurses that are flooding towards Dad's room. Sam is being held back and Dad is moving as though he's going to get out of bed. "What's going on?" Dean demands. "Sam, what's going on?!"

A uniformed security guard enters the room, and Sam throws his hands up in the air. "I'm leaving! I'm leaving!" He walks out.

Dean rushes over to his father, who is struggling to get up, moving his legs to the side of the bed. Dean takes him by the arm. "Dad, what's going on? What happened?"

"Sam," Dad grunts, pushing himself forward, heedless of the tubes and wires tugging at him. Hauling himself up on Dean, he manages to stand, even as the nurses yell at him and the machines beep in alarm.

Then suddenly, his face goes completely white.

He sinks back toward the bed.

"Dad?" Dean asks, his pulse racing, his vision tunneling. "Dad, are you okay? Dad?"

His grip on Dean tightens, and as he falls back onto the bed he drags Dean with him, wrenched close in his arms, and his eyes unfocus and he gasps, gasps like he's drowning, and his lips move, he's trying to speak, and Dean leans in and the nurses are shouting and the machines are ringing and ringing.

Dad chokes into his ear, "_Tell… Sam… I love him…"_

His hands release Dean, and his face goes slack.

The nurses and doctors pull Dean away, and they set him in a chair outside the room, down by the fish tank.

This is the last time Dean sees his father alive.

…..

…..

**Now**

"So," Dean concludes, his throat raw. "I couldn't be CEO, after that. Not when I knew how badly Dad _didn't_ want me to run the company."

Castiel is watching Dean, his expression unreadable.

"But I actually thought I would come back to my job," Dean admits. "When I ran away, I thought it would be temporary. And in the first week or so that I left, everybody was calling me and begging me to come back. But then the calls stopped. And the weeks went by. And the longer I stayed away, the more I realized that everything was running smoothly without me. The company never needed me – I was replaceable. Sam didn't need me. Nobody needed me. And that…." He sucks in a deep, difficult breath. "_That_ was the thing that really broke me."

Castiel's eyes are still on him, but he doesn't say anything.

"I've had time to get over it," he continues. "And I don't care what my dad thought of me anymore – hell, look at my life. If he could see me now, he'd disown me. But the thing that still eats at me is… the last thing he said to me." He swallows and clears his throat. "I mean, I don't think the man ever in his life told me that he loved me. Not once. And there he was, fucking _dying_, and I was still just –" He blinks quickly, clears his throat again. "Just some _messenger boy_. To tell _Sam_." He scratches the back of his neck. "Which, by the way, I never did. I couldn't bring myself to do it. So, if you needed confirmation that I'm a total shitbag of a human being…."

Cas puts his hand on Dean's knee.

"Dean," he says.

Dean looks at him.

"I'm drunk," he continues, "so I'm sorry if this is – inappropriate. But, if I had a time machine, I would go back in time and punch your father."

A bark of surprised laughter bursts out of Dean.

"I don't think he realized what he was doing to you," Cas says, "and I do think that he loved you. But that was _wrong_, Dean, the way he did that. It was wrong and cruel and I would punch him very hard."

"Well, thanks," Dean says, patting his hand. "But if you get your hands on a time machine, let's use it for something more important, like killing Hitler or banging Cleopatra."

"No, no, no." Cas shakes his head. "Too many paradoxes. Punching John Winchester? Zero paradoxes."

"Aw, look at you, you little closet nerd!" Dean ruffles his hair. "Were you just a science fiction geek in middle school, or science fiction _slash_ fantasy?"

Cas glares at him and smooths his hair back down. "Time paradoxes aren't science fiction. They're just logic."

Dean grins and reaches out to ruffle his hair again. "There there, lil' Jimmy –"

Cas snatches his wrist mid-air, and holds him there.

He gazes at Dean, and there is a hard look in his eye, but not exactly hard – maybe, challenging –

Dean frowns and tries to wriggle his arm free. "Lemme go!"

"Will you stop messing with my hair?" Cas asks.

"_Yes_," Dean sighs aggravatedly.

Cas releases his wrist.

So naturally, Dean quickly darts his hand out and ruffles Cas's hair as hard as he can.

Before he can blink, Cas has him flipped down on the couch and with his back shoved into the cushions, Cas's hands pinning his arms fast at his sides, and Cas is kneeling over him, looking down, the firelight flickering across his face and making his eyes look impossibly dark, his cheeks flushed, and a not-quite-smirk curving the edges of his mouth.

Dean can't quite catch his breath.

Cas leans in closer, his voice low. "Interesting," he murmurs. His hands tighten on Dean's arms.

"What?"

Cas's eyes flicker hungrily between Dean's eyes and his mouth. "I think I am… very drunk…"

Dean's skin is tingling, and his heart feels like it's going to pound straight through his ribs, and he's so turned on he can't think straight, and helplessly he breathes, "_Jesus take the wheel!_"

And Cas leans down and presses his mouth against Dean's.

Dean kisses him back, the warm sensation flooding through him and igniting in his blood, and Cas kisses him deeper and makes him hungrier, harder, desperate, and he can't help but groan a little, arching upward against him, his arms still trapped but his body aching for contact –

And then suddenly Cas turns pale, scrambles off of him, runs to the kitchen,

and vomits.

Dean sits up in a daze and looks over.

Cas is doubled over the sink, puking his guts out noisily and coughing.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Dean says, amazed. "You are the _straightest_ man I have ever met."

Cas retches some more.

Dean sighs and gets up off the couch. "Let's get you some water and toast, buddy. Tomorrow's gonna be rough…"

...


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: _Okay. Here it is. My bar exam results are in, and..._

_*drumroll* _

_I PASSED!_

_This means that I have a couple of formalities to fulfill (paperwork has to be processed, fees have to be paid), but in a few weeks I will be a LICENSED ATTORNEY. Unemployed, but licensed! And living at home and writing gay fanfiction ha ha ha ha ha WHY DO PEOPLE TRUST ME WITH THINGS?_

_Anyhoo, I'm glad you guys liked last chapter. I highly recommend going to YouTube and searching for "The Cabin - Ylvis." It's a parody music video by the guys who made "What Does the Fox Say?" and it's hilarious. Spot on about the cabin experience. _

_Oh, I also wanted to warn you guys that I'm getting my tonsils removed on the 16th. It's only a one-day surgery, but I'll be hopped up on painkillers and (apparently) dying of excruciating throat pain afterward, so the next chapter may be delayed. It would be hilarious but also tragic if I typed out a chapter in a Vicodin-fueled haze and posted something along the lines of "An then thye kisss and Daen says wow cas you kisz great and cas says i know I learnd from porn and Daen says lets make a porn and it hapnpned." _

_Your reward for reviewing this chapter is that I will share with you all the apple sauce, mashed potatoes, scrambled eggs, and lukewarm tea I will be able to consume after my surgery. Plus, if you review in the next five minutes, I'll throw in a FREE TONSIL! Run, don't walk, to your keyboard and REVIEW NOW! _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Saturday morning**

Castiel wakes up to the smell of scrambled eggs.

His head feels like it's been kicked a few times and filled with cement, and nausea chews faintly at his stomach. He manages to open his eyes and slowly registers the sight of a coffee table, where a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol sits.

He's in the cabin, on the couch. In his sleeping bag, on the couch, in the cabin, with a raging headache.

Then everything that happened last night starts filtering back into his memory, and he shrinks back into his sleeping bag in horror.

"Hey, you're awake!" Dean walks over and sets a plate of eggs and toast on the coffee table, and then he sits down on the edge of the sofa and peers at him. "How're you doing? I tried to get some water in you last night, but I'm guessing you're still feeling pretty wrecked."

Castiel stares at him, wide-eyed. "Did… I….?"

Dean grins. "Damn, five drinks and you have _memory loss_? I miss those days. I'll recap for you." He ticks off items on his fingers. "First you got college girl wasted and _I_ stayed sober, then you nearly had a panic attack and _I_ calmed you down, then I told you all about my tragic past, and then –" he rolls his eyes and makes an exasperated face – "you kissed me and immediately puked. Yeah, _that _was fun. Then _I_ graciously put you to bed down here because putting you up in the loft seemed like a fatality waiting to happen. So basically," he concludes, "I'm a hero."

"I remember everything," Castiel moans, covering his face with his hands. "Oh God, I wish I didn't remember…"

"You did predict that you would have many regrets," Dean muses.

"I do..."

"Well, I don't, because this means I'm right," Dean declares.

Castiel peeks out between his fingers. "About what?"

"If you were gay and not celibate and I fired you," Dean reminds him. "You and me?" He waggles his eyebrows and uses his hand and mouth to make a blowjob gesture.

"Oh Christ," Castiel groans, and he clamps his hands securely over his eyes again.

"We'd be fucking like rabbits, Cas."

"I was _drunk,_ Dean!"

"Ohhh, no you don't!" Dean exclaims. "You don't get to foist everything off on the booze! You remember kissing me, right? Well – what were you thinking when you did it?"

….

He remembers:

pinning Dean down, arms at his sides, and gazing down at Dean. And Dean had this strange look on his face – equal parts trepidation and anticipation, fear and want, his eyes alight and his breath quick and his pulse thrumming under Castiel's fingertips. And Castiel understood in that moment that Dean was aroused.

"Interesting," he murmured.

And the room spun slowly, and he kept looking down at Dean, and his mind was flickering rapidly through a thousand moments looking he had spent looking at Dean over the years and never quite cataloguing _this_ face, up close, in the moment, and he wondered how many other faces he hadn't yet experienced, when Dean asked him, "What?"

Castiel admitted, "I think I am… very drunk…"

And the look on Dean's face grew stronger, the anxiety bobbing his adam's apple and the desire reddening his cheeks, pupils dilating and spine stiffening, and Cas was drawn to it without understanding why, no thought, just instinct, but something – something held him back –

and then Dean whispered, "_Jesus take the wheel!_"

A release of control – a surrender to the unknown.

No thought, just instinct, and Cas kissed Dean, and strangely his entire body felt like the sensation of spun sugar dissolving your mouth: soft nothingness melting into gritty sweet warmth.

….

"You were thinking that I'm insanely hot," Dean predicts. "You were looking at me and realizing how hot I am, and you realized you'd be an idiot not to take me for a test drive." He sighs dramatically. "Unfortunately for you, you've apparently got some major sexual issues to work out, because as soon as my junk even _remotely_ grazed you, you started throwing up."

"I didn't vomit because of your 'junk,'" Castiel retorts. "That had nothing to do with it. I vomited because I was heavily intoxicated."

"Then…" Dean smirks lasciviously. "You admit that you liked it."

The blood drains out of Castiel's face, and his stomach folds inward on itself.

The smirk falls from Dean's face, and he gazes concernedly at Cas. "Hey. Listen. Don't sweat it. Take it from me, a little spit-swap between pals is no big deal. I'll stop giving you shit about it in like, half an hour."

"How can you be so – blasé?" Cas manages to ask.

"Cas, this happens to me all the time," he sighs. "I have been many a man's drunken mistake. This is not my first ride on the shame train."

Castiel covers his face again and groans. "That makes it so much worse!"

Dean laughs. "What are you talking about?"

"I – I devalued you!" Cas exclaims. "I treated you like an object instead of a person! All this time I've been trying to build up a real relationship between us and I go and _cheapen _it –"

Dean throws his hands in the air. "Jesus Christ, Cas, you didn't cheapen anything! You were drunk. I wasn't. I could've stopped you. I didn't. You know why? Because it was _just a kiss!_ It was maybe twenty seconds, tops. I've kissed _Louise_ longer than that!"

Cas frowns. "When?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "I was _really_ high and she brought me a cookie. _Anyway_. The point is, it meant nothing and you're overreacting. Now, eat your breakfast and stop kicking yourself." He gets up and returns to the kitchen.

Castiel opens the bottle of Tylenol, and swallows a couple of pills dry.

He knows Dean is lying, but at the moment, his headache takes priority.

…..

They tidy up the cabin and freshen up, and then go for a hike up to a small mountain lake. Dean complains most of the way ("For someone with a hangover, you walk WAY too fucking fast!") but when they reach their destination and break for lunch, even he has to admit that the lake is beautiful. It's a hot sunny day, and sitting on a log with their feet in the cool clear water while eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches makes for a nearly perfect afternoon.

Dean chews his sandwich and swallows. "So, what's the hike for? Is this supposed to be plant therapy, or something?" he asks Cas. "Is communing with nature supposed to clear my chakras?"

"No." Cas puts his trash in his paper bag and crumples it up. "I just wanted to go on a hike."

"You tricked me!"

"I did no such thing."

"You _implied_ this hike had a purpose," Dean argues.

"You enjoyed it, didn't you?"

"_So_?"

Cas rolls his eyes.

Dean finishes his sandwich. "This _is_ a pretty sweet set-up you got out here," he admits.

"Thank you." Cas stretches his arms and sighs. "Originally I bought it because I needed a place I could lay low, if I ever needed to. But it's become something of a sanctuary to me. A second home."

"I never would've pegged you for an outdoorsman."

"We learned wilderness survival in the academy – the training for the Trust," Cas explains. "But you know, out here, it doesn't feel like survival. It just feels like… living."

Dean smiles and squints at the sun. "I can see that."

Cas looks over to him. "You're the first person I've brought here."

Dean looks back at him in surprise.

"The location has to be secure," Cas explains. "I can only share it with people I trust."

"And you trust _me?_" Dean asks skeptically.

"Of course." Cas gazes at him seriously. "There's no one I trust more."

"I – _I_ am not trustworthy!" Dean exclaims. "I am the _least_ trustworthy person in the tri-state area! Just ask Sam, or Jo. Hell, ask Louise!"

Cas smiles slightly. "I trust you."

"Big mistake, bucko." Dean shakes his head and forces a chuckle. "Everyone around me, gets… gets burned…"

"No they don't," Cas says. "I've been burned before. Believe me, it's something else entirely."

Dean glances at him.

Castiel stands up from the log they are sitting on, ankle-deep in the lake, grabs his water bottle, and goes over to sit on a large sunning rock a few feet away. He props his feet on the edge of the rock to let them dry. "I've decided I'm going to tell you about Meg," he says.

Dean pulls his feet out of the water and comes to sit next to the rock, in a patch of dry yellowing grass.

Cas wiggles his toes and stares at them. "Meg and I met when I was much younger," he begins. "She was different from anyone else I'd ever met. I'd just gotten out of my academy training for the Trust; I was college age. I'd slept with several women, but sex was always… awkward. Stressful. I found the whole experience exhausting."

"Practice helps with that," Dean points out. "Practice and booze."

"When I met Meg, it was completely different." Cas takes a gulp from his water bottle. "We met at a party. We were both drunk. She essentially tackled me and declared me her boyfriend. Then she took me into a back room, and – I don't know how to describe it, except that…" He blushes, and he says, "Have you ever seen 'The Joy of Painting' on television?"

"Bob Ross?" Dean exclaims. "She fucked you like Bob Ross?!"

"No, it's just – that –" Castiel gulps more of his water. "He starts with a blank canvas, and he tells you exactly what to do, and it all seems so easy, you just take the fan brush and dab on a few happy little trees, and half an hour later he has entire mountain landscape and you don't know how it happened. It was like that. She told me exactly what she wanted me to do, she was in control of the situation, and she made it seem so simple. I'd never been with anyone like that."

"You need to sleep with Jo," Dean jokes. "She's _super_ bossy in bed."

Cas chuckles. "Bossy. Maybe that was it. Or maybe she was just experienced and assertive. But whatever it was, from that moment she had me. And that's how our relationship started – sex. In hindsight, maybe that was all we ever really had."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Trouble in paradise?"

"We were a terrible couple," Cas admits. "We were crazy about each other in all the worst ways. We made _each other_ crazy. We'd fight like cats and dogs and then we'd fuck like animals, and we were convinced that it was the greatest love the world had ever known because it hurt so much when it was broken."

Dean shrugs. "You wouldn't be the first to make that mistake."

"It doesn't make me feel less foolish," Cas sighs. "We got married, I continued advancing through the Trust – secretly, of course. I told her I worked in insurance. She cheated on me constantly – whenever she thought I wasn't paying enough attention to her, or she was mad at me. She wanted me to know. She'd come home at five in the morning smelling like cheap cologne, or I'd find someone else's underwear on the bedroom floor. She flaunted it. She liked it when I was angry, because then we'd fight and then we'd have violent make-up sex. It turned into a game, almost. We started skipping the fight and we'd go straight to the violent sex."

"And you never left?" Dean asks dubiously.

"I was addicted to it," Cas admits. "I hated it, but it's intoxicating, being constantly caught up in this rollercoaster of emotion. The highs are so high, and the lows are so low, it's… thrilling. It feels so _important_. I fed into the drama. I kept it alive. I don't think I was even really jealous of her cheating – I think it was just an excuse to be enraged, to get that high, to keep the cycle going. Like I said, we were a terrible couple."

"So, what happened eight years ago?"

Castiel sags slightly, and shoulders droop. He looks down at his drying feet.

"Sorry," Dean says. "I didn't mean to…"

"No, it's important." Cas takes a deep breath. "What… I didn't know, at the time, was that. Meg was a Syndicate agent. The entire time we were together, she was also spying on me."

Dean starts and leans backward, shocked. "Are you shitting me? And she was the one that tortured you?"

"No, no." Castiel shakes his head. "A few weeks before that happened, she told me she was leaving. She packed up her bags and left. I don't know what was going on at the Syndicate, why she had to leave, but I now think it was according to plan. Back then, I was just heartbroken. Even during our most knock-down, drag-out fights she'd never actually _left_ me. I took a leave of absence from the Trust. I didn't leave the apartment for days. I stopped eating. I even thought about killing myself."

"Jesus," Dean mutters.

"We did _not_ have a healthy relationship," Cas emphasizes. "A few weeks after she left, I had managed to piece myself back together somewhat. I decided to go out. I went to a bar, got drunk, picked up a woman, and went back to her place for a one night stand. I remembered my phone was in pants, so I put my pants back on, but then I… fell asleep. In her bed."

"Oh, Christ," Dean groans, dragging his hand down his cheek. "And that's…"

"The woman was a Syndicate agent," Cas continues. "When I woke up, she already had me in handcuffs. _She _was the one who interrogated me, along with a few of her friends." He shivers. "In the beginning it was standard CIA stuff, designed not to leave marks. After I resisted for a few days, they graduated to some burning and cutting, but they could tell I wasn't going to give them what they wanted. I know that if I had not been recovered, they would have decided to kill me."

"The Trust found you?"

Cas smiles softly. "The Trust didn't even know I was missing. I was on a leave of absence. But a week after I was taken, someone sent the police my coordinates from a burner phone and told them to come get me."

Dean takes a moment to absorb this. "Meg?"

Cas takes a long, slow drink of his water.

"They found her body two weeks later, in a city dump," he says. "She had Syndicate documents on her – nothing important, just enough to show her affiliation. The Syndicate can easily make people disappear, without leaving a trace behind. This was on purpose. It was a message meant for me. I can never know for sure, but I'm convinced that it was her. I believe she saved my life, and she was killed for it."

Dean sits back and exhales heavily, his eyes wide.

"So you see why I didn't want to tell you?" Cas asks. "You see why it's complicated?" He takes a deep breath and blinks quickly, turning his face toward the sun. "She betrayed me in so many ways, and yet, in the end…" He swallows the lump in his throat.

"Complicated as fuck," Dean mutters. "Heavy shit, man."

Cas lowers his head and sighs. "After that experience, I decided it was too risky to have sex in an unsecured room. And as you can guess, most women find securing a room before sex to be fairly strange. That eliminated my chances for casual sex, and I don't have the time or inclination to seriously date, so it was a relatively smooth transition into celibacy from there. It's just too much work."

"Wait, are you still saying that your celibacy is a convenience thing?" Dean asks, disbelievingly.

Cas nods. "The trade-off isn't worth it to me."

"And you don't think it's related to the whole… Meg thing? Or the torture chick?"

Cas shrugs. "It's related, in the sense that they illustrated the further precautions I should be taking before having sex. But that's all."

Dean stares at him.

He knows that Dean can sense the lie – he can feel it, tangible in the air like shimmering heat rising off the rock, his inability to fully pretend that he isn't afraid of what will happen the next time he touches someone and allows them to touch him back.

He remembers last night.

Spun sugar, and Dean's arms pinned down into the sofa.

He says, "I'm sorry I kissed you."

Dean groans in exasperation. "You don't have to _apologize_, Cas. It's a non-issue."

"The more you say that, the less I believe you."

"What the hell else am I supposed to say? It's the truth!"

"It was inappropriate," Cas says. "Getting drunk was inappropriate, kissing you was especially inappropriate. Everything about last night was inappropriate."

"_I'm_ inappropriate," Dean counters. "Look, probably the only reason you kissed me in the first place is because I'm always bugging you about being celibate and shit like that, and then I told you that you can fuck around with people you aren't attracted to, a.k.a., me. I planted the idea. So technically, _I_ kissed _you_."

Cas snorts. "No, I definitely kissed you. I remember quite clearly."

"Alright." Dean stands up, brushes off his pants, and faces Cas. "Will it shut you up if I make it even?"

Cas frowns up at him. "Even?"

"If I kiss you, since you kissed me." Dean answers, crossing his arms. "Even Steven."

Cas's eyes bug wide, and his nostrils flare, and his heart loudens, and he stares up at Dean for a long moment.

Then, finally he reddens and answers, "… No."

A smile hovers on the edge of Dean's mouth.

Then he shakes his head and makes a tsking noise. "You're wasting a perfectly good opportunity. This is a decent camping trip, but we could Brokeback this shit and turn it into an _awesome_ camping trip."

"That would not be awesome," Cas retorts. "You have to get water all the way from the river to shower, and it takes over an hour to heat up."

"Ugh, good point. Okay – sex vacation only with running water. Noted."

"No sex vacations."

"No sex vacations with _you_, or no sex vacations period?" Dean inquires. "Because I feel like a politician could still go on a sex vacation."

Cas stands up off the rock and rolls his eyes. "None with me. But you won't have as much time for vacations once things get rolling, anyways." He walks over to his bag and puts his water bottle away, brushes his feet off and puts his socks and shoes back on.

When he rights himself again, he turns to find himself standing face to face with Dean.

Dean puts his hands on his shoulders, and looks him in the eye, and he has that beginning of a smile, but with something underneath it – something wistful, knowing, resigned, something that pierces straight through Cas – and he says quietly,

"Last chance."

And the strange thing is, Cas knows he means it.

This is the last time he'll ever suggest it, ever ask, ever try. And Cas can see that Dean knows what the answer will be, but he has to ask.

He must have felt like sugar, too.

"You were wrong this morning," Cas says softly. "When I kissed you, I wasn't thinking about how hot you were. I was trying… to learn you. I wanted to know you. All of you."

Dean's eyes widen, and his hands tighten on Cas's shoulders.

"But it was the wrong way to do it," Cas continues. "I can't… be that, to you."

"I know," Dean says softly.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

They stand there for a moment, quietly acknowledging the hard truths that stand in the space between them.

Dean drops his hands from Cas's shoulders. "Guess we should head back to the cabin."

"Yes." Cas walks over to grab his bag and slings it onto his back. "You know, you were right about one thing."

Dean grabs his backpack and raises an eyebrow. "What's that?"

"If I were gay and not celibate and you fired me," Cas says. He looks Dean straight in the eye. "Like rabbits."

And he turns on his heel and walks cheerfully back to the hiking trail without a backward glance, leaving Dean to pick his jaw up off the ground and scrambling to catch up.

...


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: _READERS! DEAR READERS! I HAVE SURVIVED THE TONSILLECTOMY!_

_Sadly, the liquid oxycodone I was prescribed was not strong enough to produce any discombobulated writings. I really wanted to give you guys a drug-fueled nonsense piece, I did! But all it did was dull the pain and make me feel like I was tipsy. It did make it hard to read or concentrate on things, for some reason, and so I didn't get any actual writing done for the first week of recovery. Hence the lateness of this chapter - and it happens to be a short chapter, too. I'm so sorry, my savory sapsuckers! Sometimes these are the breaks. But know that I love you and next chapter will probably be much longer!_

_Thank you so much for everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I know it was very cruel of me to have them be so close to sexytimes and yet so far. Is it sad that I'm practically writing fanfic of my own fanfic at this point? Like, when Dean said, "Last chance," how EASY would it have been for Cas to say, "Even Steven," and then Dean throws his arms around him and kisses him and the music swells and Cas does the foot-pop from Princess Diaries and then suddenly a minister appears and he pronounces them married and they all live happily ever after?!_

_No, I'm not still taking the oxycodone. Why do you ask? _

_Oh - by the way, I thought I would mention for any of you who read my other fic, Exonerated. There's this website (it's called Inkitt) and they're having a contest called "Hidden Gems" for fully completed novels that ends October 1. Inkitt will take the winner of the contest and act as their agent and get them published. I took Exonerated and edited it and changed the names and submitted it (I think the plot is original enough from the show that it's its own thing). I can't post the URL but if you wanted to google it and go vote for it, that would be cool of you. The rules are really vague - it appears that number of votes is a consideration, but not necessarily determinative of the winner. Plus, I've been informed by someone else that Inkitt is pretty sketchy and the whole thing may be a raw deal? So we'll see. I'm #4 in the voting ranking but the #1 person has twice as many votes as me, so I don't think I'll win anyway. _

_Enough of that. Your reward for reviewing this chapter is all of the pudding I still have left - s_o much pudding_ \- plus this runty kitten! My parents' cat had three kittens and one of them is a runt and sort of deformed. His tail is half the length of his brothers' and it has a crook in it, and his eyes are kind of far apart. He's a special kitten. And he can be ALL YOURS if you review now!* _

_* Thecouchcarrot is not responsible for any peeing or pooping of the weirdo kitten. Thecouchcarrot also disclaims any responsibility for later-discovered deformities including but not limited to "lack of kidney," "rectangular liver" or "half-brain." No returns or refunds._

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Dean wishes he could fast forward about a month.

He's glad he sorted things out with Cas – it's done with. It's all tied up, boxed up and stacked away into a convenient back room where it will never be spoken of again. Dean couldn't tell you what "it" is, exactly – he's been doing his best to avoid looking at it too closely or thinking about it very hard – but he knows it's different than anything else he's had with anybody else, and the sheer foreignness of it frightens him. So, Cas saying he didn't want that? Good. Safe. For the best. Now they can put it behind them.

The problem is, that's easier said than done. Whatever it was, it sprang into carnivorous life when they kissed, and it burrowed and devoured its way up from the pit of Dean's stomach into his sternum and ate a ragged hole through him. Now, it's boxed up in the back room but there's still this… hole. An empty ache.

Dean looks at Cas, and he feels that hollowness, and he thinks, _Christ, it would have killed me. It would have eaten me alive. Thank God it ended as soon as it started._

But it still aches.

Luckily, Dean is used to this kind of thing. Monotonous pain that drones in the background like a refrigerator running? He's got that on lock. He can handle it. Still, he wishes he could just fast forward about a month and be over it.

Cas seems to be totally normal. When they get back from the hike, he makes tacos for dinner and orders Dean around, directing him to chop and grate and stir things. There's something different about him, out here at the cabin, different than in town. Maybe it's the change in wardrobe; he looks more natural in flannel and jeans, more personable. But no, it's something else: he stands looser, talks lighter, smiles more, laughs at Dean's jokes, seems more relaxed, almost like when he had the first couple of drinks last night –

He's _happy_, Dean realizes.

This is Cas, actually happy for the first time since Dean has met him.

Cas watches the browning ground beef with an absurdly serious look on his face, as though it is a delicate operation that requires his utmost concentration, and Dean thinks with a sharp pain in his chest, _Christ, he would have killed me._

He just needs a fast forward button.

….

After the dishes are done, Cas sits down across the table and sets a college ruled notebook and a pencil in front of Dean. "As you know, the Trust has goals for you," he says. "I have goals for you. But I think you should have some goals that you set for yourself."

Dean frowns. "Goals? What kind of Ya-Ya Sisterhood bullshit is this?"

"You agreed to let me turn you into a politician," Cas explains. "I know your primary motivation was to regain purpose in your life, but there must be other things you hope will come of this experience."

"I'm not _hoping_ for anything," Dean retorts. "In case you forgot, none of this was my idea. You steamrolled me into this and I just happen to be shit out of other options. If I had any clue on what the fuck to do with my life, I'd be doing it!"

"Just consider it," Cas suggests. "Brainstorm. What are three things you'd like to accomplish in the next year or so? Write three goals down."

Dean glares at him, grabs the pencil, and scribbles furiously on the first page. Then he thrusts the notebook over to Cas.

_ 1\. Get laid_

_ 2\. Eat a cheeseburger_

_ 3\. Go fuck yourself_

"Mm. Aiming high, I see."

"I've _learned_ a few things from being a total fuckup," Dean says forcefully. "And one of the things I've learned is that as soon as you admit to yourself that you actually want something, you will fuck it up. You will find a way to screw yourself over. So thanks but no thanks, buddy, I'd rather not give myself a roadmap to all the ways I'm going to shoot myself in the foot."

Cas stares at him incredulously. "That makes no sense, Dean. You can't prevent self-sabotage by _lying_ to yourself. That's delusional."

"That may be so," Dean agrees. "But at least I get exactly what I expect."

Cas looks down at the notebook, and picks up the pencil. He erases each of the three lines. "I anticipated that this would be difficult for you. Which is why… I planned this next part." He stands up, and pushes his chair in.

"What is it?" Dean asks.

Cas glances at him apologetically. "You're not going to like it."

Dean narrows his eyes. "What _is it_?"

Cas walks to the coatrack and takes down his jacket. "I'm leaving."

Dean bolts up from the table. "Leaving where?"

He shrugs on the coat and starts putting on his boots. "I'm leaving the cabin so you can have some time to yourself. Think about your goals and see if you can come up with a few."

"Where are you going?" Dean demands. He quickly yanks on his shoes.

"I'm going into town," Cas answers, pocketing his keys. "I'll be back on Wednesday." He walks out the front door.

Dean blinks, and then charges after him.

"Wednesday?!" he shouts. "_Wednesday?! _You're going to abandon me in the woods for four days?!"

"You have plenty of food and firewood," Cas replies calmly, unlocking the car and climbing in the front seat. "You know where everything is and how to use it. There's a two-way radio under the sink. If there's an emergency, you can use that to contact me."

"What if I fall down the ravine?!" Dean exclaims. "I could break my neck and die!"

"That's what the tracker bracelet is for," Cas remarks. "It monitors your vital signs. It will alert me if you're in any kind of distress. Good luck, and I'll see you in a few days." He closes the car door and starts the ignition.

Dean pounds his fist on the window. "Castiel!" he hollers. "CASTIEL! Don't you dare!"

Cas ignores him and puts the car into reverse, and begins pulling out of the driveway.

"You son of a bitch! You psychopath!" Dean yells at him, running after the car. "Goal number one: I'm gonna HUNT YOU DOWN AND SKIN YOU AND MAKE YOU INTO A RUG!"

The car quickly picks up speed and shuttles down the gravel road, outpacing Dean and racing down the mountain.

"GOAL TWO!" Dean shouts into the sky. "DESTROY THE RUG!"

….

Dean spends the rest of Saturday night plotting various methods to carry out Castiel's gruesome murder.

Sunday morning, he fills several pages of the notebook with detailed schematics for the most promising of Saturday's plans. He spends the rest of the day down by the river and does not look at the notebook.

Monday, he rips out the death plans and throws them in the fireplace. He picks up the pencil and sets it back down again… eleven times.

Tuesday, he writes.

….

Castiel returns in the middle of Wednesday afternoon. The cabin is empty, so he makes himself comfortable on the sofa with a book and waits for Dean to return.

Two hours later, he hears off-key singing in the distance. It grows louder and approaches the doorway.

Dean bursts in the door and with an armful of firewood, using his free hand to add emphatic hand gestures to his singing. "_Ooooohhhh, we're halfway the-ere, whooAOOOH, livin' on a prayer! Take my hand, we'll make it I swea-"_ He sees Cas, and freezes.

Castiel waves.

"I… was not singing Bon Jovi," Dean says. "That never happened."

Cas gives him a deprecating look. "It's too late for damage control."

Dean looks good. He's already slightly tanner and his beard has grown in thick; his eyes are clear and he hasn't been drinking. There's also something in his bearing that has changed, something in the way he holds his shoulders that is minutely straighter and higher than before.

"You got a lot of nerve, showing your face back here," Dean says, taking the wood over to its bin by the fireplace. "You left me high and dry, without even so much as a volleyball to talk to." He points to a decorative pinecone on the mantelpiece. "I had to make do with Lion-O."

Cas raises an eyebrow. "The Thundercat?"

"He picked the name, not me," Dean argues.

"Well, at least you made a friend," Castiel jokes.

Dean grins and sits down on the end of the coffee table. "It's weird, I… I never realized how long it's been since I've actually been _alone._ I always thought of myself as being 'home alone' when I had dozens of staff running around twenty-four seven. It was strange being truly… solitary."

Castiel sits forward and sets his book on the coffee table. "You seem to have managed yourself well."

"I did the, uh, the dumb goals thing you wanted me to," Dean says, reddening slightly. He gets up and retrieves the notebook from the mantel bookshelf, and tosses it casually to Cas.

Cas flips it open.

_ 1\. Get sober _

_ 2\. Fix things with Sam _

_ 3\. Have a girlfriend_

Dean paces slightly and won't look in Cas's direction. "It's still difficult to – to look at," he admits. "It's so fucking ridiculous."

"I didn't know you wanted a relationship," Cas says, surprised.

Dean's face turns redder and he pivots and paces in a different direction. "Yeah, neither did I."

And there's something about the way he says it, and the way that he's avoiding Castiel's gaze, and perhaps it is completely coincidental but the fragments slide next to each other and click together and something in Castiel's brain lights up and whispers_,_ _He realized because of you_. _When you kissed him_.

Castiel blushes fiercely and tries to convince himself that he is blushing for no reason.

"That one is lowest priority," Dean says. "I just needed a third thing."

"This is a good start," Cas says. "Thank you for giving it thought."

"Not like I had anything else to do," Dean remarks. He finally looks back at Cas and stops pacing. "When I say 'get sober,' I don't mean dry. I don't want to cut out alcohol completely, I just want to be able to… stop."

Castiel looks at him carefully. "Do you think that's possible?"

"I don't know," Dean admits. "I know the people in my treatment program would say no. And I know people – they can't have even one drink, they just lose all control. But I used to have limits, you know? I used to know when to say when. And the other night, out here, you asked me to stop drinking, and I did." He shrugs. "So I thought, maybe I could try. Maybe I can just… scale things back."

"Be honest with me," Cas says. "What do you feel when you think about giving up alcohol completely?"

Dean wipes a hand down his face. "Augh..."

"Say it."

Dean swallows, and admits, "I feel… dread. My blood runs cold."

Castiel nods. "We can try it your way. I had planned as much; not everyone finds total abstinence necessary, and I think you may find some success with setting strict boundaries for yourself. But that dread you feel – that's addiction, Dean. And at the end of the day, you're going to have to do whatever it takes to deal with it."

"I will," Dean replies. "And I'll go completely dry – _if it comes to that_. But let's not throw out the baby with the bathtub gin." Then he looks at his watch. "By the way, I'm starving, and it's _your_ fucking turn to make dinner."

"I was thinking we could pack up and close up the cabin, and get dinner on the way back," Castiel says.

"We're leaving tonight?" Dean asks, his face falling.

"That was the plan."

Dean looks around the cabin. "But it's going to take a while to close up, and it's going to be dark soon," he points out, "and it's a really long drive back. You're gonna be driving all night, falling asleep…"

"You want to stay another night?"

"I just think it's more practical," Dean says unconvincingly.

Cas suppresses a smile and says, "Is there any spaghetti left?"

"Oh yeah, tons!" Dean replies brightly, walking to the kitchen. "You packed a shitload of the stuff. Okay, so I have to tell you about this fucking thing I saw out on the mountain. It looked like – like a deformed porcupine without quills, or – or a prairie dog on steroids, I shit you not. It was the size of a fucking _cocker spaniel,_ Cas!"

"It was probably a marmot."

"What in God's name is a _marmot_?"

"A prairie dog on steroids."

"Huh. Well, it was fucking bizarre. Oh, also I was up at the lake and I saw this really weird newt thing in the water, it had like – fingers coming out of its gills. Or, I guess they were more feathery looking than fingers. Tentacles? I don't know, but it looked kinda like a Fraggle…."

…


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: _My perfect peonies! Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter. You're all lovely and wonderful and if I met you in person I would totally give you a hug. I'm the kind of person where, if you're saying goodbye and there's that awkward uncertainty of "Handshake? Hug? Just wave?" Usually I look the person in the eye and announce, "I'm gonna go in for the hug!" And then I do it. I'm a hugger. _

_Anyway, it was nice to give you guys just some cute happiness last chapter. My writing roots are in fluff, and all my instincts are fluff. Guys, you have no idea how fluffy my instincts are. I restrain myself for the sake of Quality, but one day - ONE DAY - the fluff will have its day. Therefore, your reward for reviewing this chapter is TEN POUNDS OF GRADE A COTTON STUFFING, RIGHT IN YOUR MAILBOX! Use it to stuff things! Stuff pillows! Stuff animals! Stuff a shoddy fabric facsimile of a significant other so you can clutch it while crying yourself to sleep at night! Stuff quilts! Review to order now! _

_Enjoy the chapter. _

* * *

When Castiel wakes up, the early morning light coming through the small loft window is watery gray - the air is chilly, but his sleeping bag is still cozily warm.

He looks over to see Dean, already awake, lying there silently and staring at the ceiling.

"Good morning," Castiel says.

Dean keeps staring at the ceiling. "Can't we just stay?" he asks.

"What?"

"Why do we have to leave?" he asks, a pleading note in his voice. "Let's just live in the mountains from now on."

Castiel sighs. "We have to go back to the real world."

"Are you kidding me?" Dean looks over at him and flops an arm above his head in exasperation. "_This_ is the real world. The mansion and the servants and the playboy bunnies – that's the fantasy. It's all fake. Out here, I feel like an actual person."

Castiel looks him in the eyes and says, "Yes. I've seen more of the real you out here than I have in years."

Dean's eyes are glued to his, desperate, clinging.

"But your desire to retreat - it's escapism," Cas continues. "You drink and do drugs to try and get away from your life. This is just another escape. Eventually, you have to stop running."

"Why?" Dean demands. "I can afford it. I'm set for life. I wouldn't even have to sell the mansion if I didn't feel like it; I could afford to just buy a cabin in the woods and never go back."

"_I_ couldn't," Castiel replies. "You'd be alone."

Dean snorts. "What kind of a stingy SOB do you think I am? C'mon, Cas, I'd totally spot you the cash."

Castiel isn't certain what to say. And for a moment, laying here in his warm sleeping bag, breathing the fresh air, Dean's gaze on him, he feels… tempted…

Dean turns on his side to face him more fully and props his head up with his arm. "C'moooon, you know you like it out here," he cajoles. "We could get a DVD player and some more books, an X-box or something… Have it totally made. Who gives a shit about politics and the Trust and blah blah blah."

The mention of the Trust is enough to snap Castiel out of his momentary lapse of judgment.

"No." Cas sits up and unzips his sleeping bag, cold air hitting his skin and raising goosebumps. "We both have responsibilities we cannot abandon."

"That's it?" Dean exclaims. "You're not even going to _consider_ it?"

"No." He climbs out of his bag and quickly tugs on a sweatshirt.

"Uuuuuugh. Fucking hell, dude. You're the worst, you know that? You're such a buzzkill."

"I'm being realistic," Cas retorts. "A few months out here, and it would become as banal as your life in the city."

"It's like you're _allergic_ to fun!" Dean continues, gesticulating vehemently. "Or, no – you're a fun vampire. You take a fun idea and you just –" he makes a choking gesture with both hands – "_suck_ the life out of it!"

Castiel glares at him. "I was the one who brought you out here."

"Yeah. For business reasons!" Dean counters. "If it were up to you, this trip would be all serious talks and brisk hikes. Iwas the one who got the good times rolling! I'm the fun machine!"

"The fun machine," Castiel repeats flatly.

"Yes! The fun machine! I manufacture and distribute fun!"

Castiel climbs down out of the loft. "Then I suppose you can figure out how to manufacture and distribute breakfast."

"Only for myself!" Dean hollers after him. "I'm sure you're just _stuffed_ after horking down the _joy and happiness of everyone around you, _you goddamn Dementor!"

…

A few hours later, Castiel locks the cabin behind him and walks out to the car. The day has warmed somewhat; the sun has broken brightly through the clouds, but there is still a damp edge to the air, cutting in every inward breath. The earth is sodden. It must have rained in the night. Castiel makes one last appreciative survey of his surroundings, and then gets into the driver's seat and closes his door to the wilderness.

Dean is sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the window sullenly.

Castiel considers him for a moment.

Finally, he says, "If you decided to come live out here, I wouldn't stop you."

Dean's eyes dart to him, startled.

"But I also couldn't join you," he says. "And if you left like that, the Trust…" He presses his lips together tight and cuts himself off.

"They'd be pissed?" Dean guesses.

He can't tell Dean the whole truth – that he's staked his personal and professional reputation on this venture. It's too much pressure, too much weight to saddle Dean with. But he has to give him some insight into what would happen.

"They'd expect me to retrieve you," Castiel answers. "And if I didn't – if I refused – I would face sanctions for abandoning my assignment. Serious sanctions."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You saying you'd come after me?"

Cas sighs. "I'm saying if you leave, I'll in a basement doing data entry for the rest of my natural life."

Dean stares at him for a long moment.

"So please don't run off into the mountains," Cas requests. "It would be very inconvenient." He starts the car.

Dean looks out the window and mutters, "I don't fucking get you."

"What?"

"You just – you just _say _shit like that," Dean rants. "You'd roll on the Trust for me, you like me, you want to be friends, have a 'real relationship,' shit like that! That's all you ever do! It's like you're – you're in–" His mouth twists tight and he grits his teeth. "It's like you're _crazy gay_ for me and somehow _kissing_ is outta line, whoooa ho ho, let's not cross any _boundaries_, but it's okay to goddamn say you'd give up your entire career for me?! I don't fucking care how long you've been stalking me, _I've _only known you for less than a month! _You're_ the one crossing boundaries, pal!"

"You're angry," Cas observes quietly.

"Damn straight I'm angry!" Dean snaps. "It's a goddamn double standard, is what it is! It's – it's fucking hypocritical! So fuck you!" He crosses his arms and turns away from Cas with a huff, glaring out the window.

"Dean."

"Just – shut up and drive!" Dean barks.

"Dean, I can see…." Castiel struggles to find the right words. "I can see what you're feeling. I know you too well not to see it. And I know it's difficult."

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"But it's not real," he continues. "It's an infatuation. It's a natural reaction to having someone suddenly thrust into your life who cares about you and understands you – but that's all it is. A few months from now –"

"_Months?!_" Dean exclaims indignantly, whipping around to face Cas. Then he reddens and sinks back into his seat.

"A few months from now," Cas repeats, "you'll feel much differently."

"Whatever," Dean mutters. "Can you just drive already?"

"I want you to know that I won't."

"You won't drive?"

"I won't feel differently, a few months from now," Cas replies. "I've been watching you for a very long time, and since the day I was assigned to you, I have wanted nothing more than to see you succeed. That isn't going to change. In fact, getting to know you personally has only strengthened it. And I'm not going to pretend that I don't care about you, because I do, and one of the many reasons I can't have a sexual relationship with you is because I care about you immensely." He looks Dean in the eye. "So stop being a shit."

Dean blinks.

Castiel turns the ignition, and begins the drive down the mountain.

They drive in silence for several minutes, and then Dean speaks again. "You said 'can't.'"

Castiel glances at him, confused.

"You said you 'can't' have a sexual relationship with me," Dean clarifies.

"Yes?" Castiel is still confused. "What about it?"

"You didn't say you won't, or you don't want to. You said you can't." Dean picks at the edge of his thumbnail.

Castiel's hands tighten on the wheel. "What does that matter?" he asks sharply.

"I just think it's an interesting word choice."

"It's an accurate description."

"Okay, riddle me this, then: how come when you like me, it's this deep abiding eternal bullshit, but when I like _you_, it's infatuation?" Dean demands.

"Because you just met me," Cas replies. "I've been studying every aspect of your life for years. We're not in the same position."

"You know what I think?" Dean says, cocking his head. "I think you're just as fucked up as me, and you don't even know it. I think we could've known each other for decades and you'd say the same exact thing, because you've got such piss poor self-esteem that you don't understand how anybody could actually like you."

"That's absurd," Castiel retorts.

"Name one person in your life who gives a shit about you."

Castiel stares out the windshield.

It's strange, the things you can keep yourself from noticing. All these years, Castiel has prided himself on his self-sufficiency, his thoroughness, his dedication to his work. He has pruned away the personal attachments that made him weak and vulnerable. He is alone by choice. But to hear it framed that way – to confront the reality of that choice –

If only Anna hadn't quit. She cared. She was his friend. But now she's gone, and Uriel doesn't really care, he doesn't even really _know_ Castiel.

He burns with embarrassment and he can feel the clamminess of his palms on the wheel. His mouth is dry. He's been silent for far too long now.

"Yeah, well. I got one." Dean smacks the back of his hand against Cas's shoulder. "Dean Winchester."

Castiel blinks quickly, and some warm, indescribable emotion surges through him.

It's almost like gratitude – but no, perhaps it's more like relief. It rushes out from the center of his abdomen and floods all the way through him, tingling in his scalp and the tips of his toes.

"That's real," Dean says. "That's not a part of… whatever horseshit you're talking about. I'm not going to 'get over' giving a shit about you."

"I… appreciate that," Cas says slowly.

"And _for the record!_" Dean raises a hand as though testifying. "I'm gonna respect your choices. And I'm not gonna be a dick about it. _However_. I also one hundred percent do not believe you when you say you're not mega gay for me."

"Mega gay?" Cas gives him a skeptical look. "How does that differ from regular gay?"

"It's one million times gayer. Like how a megabyte is one million bytes. Ten to a factor of six."

"Refusing to have sex with you is one million times gayer than a man who would willingly have sex with you?"

"It's all about context, dude! Refusing sex? Not gay. Kissing me but then refusing to have sex with me because you _care too much_? Mega gay. Maybe even giga gay."

"That was _one_ of the reasons. Among many."

"Suuuure. Whatever you tell yourself so you can sleep at night, buddy."

"I sleep just fine."

…..

…..

Returning from the cabin feels like waking up in an unfamiliar bed.

It takes a moment to reorient, to ground yourself in reality, and in the confusion you struggle to recall what was happening moments ago. Everything that happened seems too surreal to be a memory – it couldn't have happened, could it? It's all jumbled up, and you're already beginning to forget. It must have been a dream. It must have been a strange, confusing dream.

Dean steps into his marble foyer, and tries to shake off the uncomfortable sensation.

"Thank heavens," Louise breathes, sighting Dean. "Where's Castiel?"

"He dropped me off," Dean answers. "Hello to you too." There's something off about this house, now – he can't place it, exactly, but it makes him uneasy. Has he ever really _looked _at this foyer before? Why didn't he notice how garish it is, how ridiculous it looks?

"How was the trip?" Louise asks. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Yeah, sure did." Dean wanders distractedly toward the doorway, glancing around at the wainscoting and the velvet staircase. "Good to be back. I think I'm gonna… take a shower."

"Many of your acquaintances stopped by, and several more called the house. Would you like to hear the messages?"

"Not really," Dean admits. "I'm going to be doing a lot less entertaining." He walks out of the foyer.

Louise gazes after him, a puzzled twist to her eyebrows.

….

Dean enters his bedroom, and freezes.

The entire thing is spotless.

On his king sized bed, the silk sheets and down comforter are perfectly made, pillows in exacting alignment. There is no dirty laundry on the floor, no model kits piled on the furniture, no clutter anywhere. The curtains have been cleaned and every smooth surface shines.

Dean dashes over to his walk-in closet, throws open the doors, and darts inside. His clothes are all neatly hung along the enormous rotating racks, and his shoes are nicely matched and sorted by color. And in the far back corner, an old shoebox still sits on the very top shelf.

Dean snatches the box down and opens it.

There is nothing in the box except a folded note.

_Dean, _

_I found your stash of pills and other substances in here. I got rid of them, so there was no more reason to keep the staff from cleaning your room. I don't know how much you were using, but if you experience any withdrawal symptoms, please contact your doctor. _

_Castiel_

Dean crumples the note in his fist and hisses curses under his breath.

…..

"Hello?" Castiel answers his phone.

"You've got some nerve, you son of a bitch," Dean growls. "Is this what you were doing when you left me in the woods?! Going through my shit?! Throwing out my stuff?!"

"You had illegal drugs, Dean."

"Oh, like _I_ was gonna be arrested!"

"You are still on probation," Castiel cuts in sharply. "Illicit substances could land you back in jail, and you will have to serve more time on your DUI. You may be privileged, but if someone sought to derail you by turning you over to the authorities, it would be incredibly easy. Having that in your house, much less your bedroom, was extremely reckless."

"Okay, but you only _found_ that stuff because you were in my room, going through my private things!"

Castiel snorts. "I didn't find it. I knew it was there. I knew the first time I stepped into your bedroom."

"How?!"

"Why else would you prevent it from being cleaned? Ever since your crash, you've been worried Sam would do what I just did and take it upon himself to find them and get rid of them. You hoped the sheer size of the mess would discourage him."

"Well – _yeah!_"

"Well, now you don't need to worry about it," Castiel says calmly, "and now your bedroom looks less like the bedroom of a mentally ill eccentric."

"Next time, _ask!_" Dean snarls.

"I'm curious – why didn't you just put them in your safe? It would have been much easier."

"I didn't wanna have to fuckin' GO all the way out to the safe every time I – wait, you know what? Screw you, I don't owe you an explanation! DON'T TOUCH MY SHIT!" And he hangs up.

….

Dean flops backward onto his bed.

_Sam_. Hearing his name again brings back all the uncomfortable things Cas said about him – but then, the cabin trip was just a dream, right? It was all a dream, and none of it was real.

Cas's hands squeezing tight on his forearms, friction burn of the polyester upholstery against his elbows: just a dream.

Dean exhales heavily, closes his eyes, and sinks into the down comforter.

It was real. It happened…

Footsteps sound down the hall, approaching and entering the room. "Oh! Sorry, sir," Miguel says. "I didn't realize you were back. The door was open…"

"It's fine," Dean groans, sitting up. "I was just resting for a second."

Miguel stares at him. "You look – different," he says.

Dean runs his hand along his scruffy chin and smiles. "I'm trying out a rugged fall fashion. How do we like the beard? Yea or nay?"

"Whatever you prefer, sir," Miguel says.

"No, I'm asking your opinion," Dean counters. "What looks better? I'm not gonna get mad, dude. I don't care either way. I just prefer some actual input to a coin toss."

Miguel seems to struggle with this for a moment. "Well – I think – it depends," he hedges.

Dean snorts. "Wow. You would do _great_ in a deposition."

Miguel clears his throat. "It's… a little long right now, and… unkempt. But I think if you trimmed it short, it would look… mature."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You mean I would look old."

"But you _are_ old," Miguel returns. Then he turns beet red and stammers, "That's not – I apologize, I don't mean –"

Dean laughs hard and gets up off the bed. "Jesus, so _this_ is why you don't give opinions! How many boyfriends have you lost this way?"

"I just meant –" Miguel sighs, and drops his head in embarrassment. "I meant, it's alright to look the age that you actually are."

Dean steps closer to him and crosses his arms, raising his chin in a challege. "And just how old do you think I am?"

"Thirty six," Miguel blurts quickly.

"Damn Wikipedia," Dean mutters. "How old're _you, _smartass? Twenty five?"

"Twenty nine."

"Motherfucker," Dean groans, putting a hand to his forehead. "Just – don't stand next to me when I have company, alright? I don't need you hovering with your _baby skin_ and your _thick hair_ –"

Miguel looks confused. "You're not balding."

"Well, it's only a matter of time!" Dean exclaims. "One day I'm gonna wake up, and bam! I've got Jack Nicholson forehead in the front and a crop circle in the back. Nothin' but Rogaine and hair plugs from there on out."

"I don't think that's how it works, sir."

"Sure it does. Listen to your elders," Dean advises. Then he stretches his arm and announces, "Alright, this is fun, buuuut I haven't had a real shower in almost a week, so I'm gonna have to cut this conversation short."

"Of course, sir."

Dean steps toward the bathroom, and stops. He looks at Miguel.

_This_ is his life. No more running. Time to get real.

"Sir?"

Dean clears his throat. "You can, uh, drop the sir stuff," he says. "Nobody else calls me sir. I only asked you to do it because I like the fantasy."

Miguel frowns quizzically. "The… fantasy?"

"Living in this mansion, being called 'sir,' having people wait on me hand and foot," Dean explains. "It's all just me, pretending I'm somebody important."

"But – you _are_ important," Miguel replies, baffled. "You're one of the richest men in the country."

"That's not the same thing," Dean counters. "I figured out a long time ago that money makes people treat you like you're important. But you're not. It's just an illusion. You can only become important by _doing_ something significant." His mouth twists ruefully, and he looks Miguel in the eye. "I don't wanna buy respect anymore. I want to earn it. So don't call me sir until I've changed the world."

Then he turns and walks towards the bathroom.

"Wait."

Dean looks back.

Miguel is staring at him with a strange expression, a mixture of confusion and yearning, his dark eyebrows knotted together, and Dean wonders how he never noticed before how much Miguel looks like Cas.

"What should I call you?" Miguel asks.

"Dean," he replies. "Although, I also answer to 'Hey, douchebag' and 'You bastard.'"

Miguel laughs and then tries to pass it off as a cough.

Dean walks into the bathroom and calls behind him, "Now get outta here, you millenial! I gotta take my arthritis medication!"

He closes the bathroom door behind him, sits down on the edge of the Jacuzzi, and sighs.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sets it on the sink. He checked his texts and listened to his voicemails on the ride home; none of them were from Sam. There are no new messages.

He takes a long, hot shower, rinsing off the scent of woodsmoke and pine needles, scrubbing away the dirt and grit that has collected in every crevice and wrinkle of his skin, erasing the physical proof of his experience, the evidence that his strange dream was a real place and time –

But not all of it.

He trims his beard in the mirror, and he does not shave it off. He has a stylist who would do this for him – who will probably insist on fixing it – but he does it himself. He looks at his reflection, and he sees someone who looks familiar, but who is not _him_, exactly. Someone new.

Then he texts Cas.

_We need to talk about Sam_.

A minute later, Cas replies.

_In person. I'll pick you up at six._

….


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: _My symphonic sapsuckers! Thank you all so much for your patience. A bunch of LIFE happened since my last update, and the short version is: I got a job! I don't want to talk about what the job is too much since I don't want Internet Weirdos to be able to suss out my identity, but it is a lawyer job doing lawyer things and I will be moving to a location about four and a half hours from where I'm currently living. And I'll get PAID! ACTUAL CASH MONEY, YO! _

_Anyway, the next update will probably be slow because of moving and such. BUT, this one is absurdly long, so maybe that will make up for it! Your reward for reviewing this chapter is that I will sue the person of your choice* for free** even if there's really nothing to sue them about!*** _

_* Thecouchcarrot will not do this, because we told her she can't. _

_** We said no. _

_*** Absolutely not. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Fifteen years ago **

"I'm telling you, you need to _completely_ overhaul Presenter!" Sam argues, leaning forward over the dinner table. "It's too complicated!"

"It doesn't need to be less complicated," John says curtly, cutting at the slice of turkey on his plate with more vehemence than necessary. "It's a corporate tool. We have the corporate market, and we just dumped a bunch of money on Presenter last year when we bought it. I'm not going to take resources away from Word just to reinvent an expensive wheel."

"Resources?" Sam shoots back. "It wouldn't suck 'resources.' If you just _bothered_ to put three guys on a development team, you could fix half its problems. Hell, _I_ could write something more user friendly, and I'm in high school. And it's not just a business program! People make slideshows at home, Dad – vacation pictures, family photos. And teachers could use it – you could have a huge market there –"

Dean snorts and glances at John. "Like schoolteachers can afford digital projectors."

"Well – professors, then," Sam says, flushing. "Universities."

John regards Sam critically. "You think you could improve it?"

"I can't make it _worse_," Sam retorts.

John takes a bite of his turkey and chews it.

Dean looks back and forth between the two of them.

John swallows. "Alright," he says. "Put your money where your mouth is."

San blinks. "What?"

"You boys have your own money," John says. "Hire some engineers to help you develop it. If you can give me something better in six months, I'll give you double your expenses. And if not, you eat the loss."

"I – I don't have _that_ kind of money," Sam sputters. "And six months isn't enough time!"

John shrugs.

The three of them eat in silence.

For a Winchester Thanksgiving dinner, it's actually one of the less contentious ones in recent memory. If you asked Dean that evening whether he thought anything would come of the Presenter discussion, he'd say that it was just another stupid argument between Sam and Dad that would be forgotten in a week.

It wasn't forgotten. For the next six months, Sam spent every spare moment working on improving the slideshow creator. In the last month before the deadline he spent time fishing around at the offices Winchester Incorporated, where he convinced a few of John's employees to help him a few hours on the weekends polishing his work.

Back at college, Dean had no idea what was going on until Sam made his big reveal in May.

"So then I showed it to Dad," Sam told him over the phone. "You know how he can't give a compliment, so he just ran through the program with a big frown on his face. And then he asked me what my expenses were, and I told him, straight up: zero. I spent zero dollars on this. It was all my time and the time people volunteered. I could tell he was really confused, because he thought I was doing it for the money, you know? I should've been itemizing every can of Sprite. But I told him, 'I don't want money. My version is still crap. I want you to put a full team on Presenter and completely rewrite it, from the ground up.' And he just looked me in the eye, and he said, 'Okay.' Can you believe that?! 'Okay.' He's actually developing Presenter now!"

"Wow," Dean said, feeling a strange sick feeling in his gut. "That's awesome, Sammy. But – you've been working on this for six months? Why didn't you ask me for help? I could've given you a hand."

A pause. "Oh, well. I figured you're busy with college and everything."

_Busier than software engineers working full time?_ Dean thought. He had been busy. Sort of. But at least Sam could have asked. "I can always make time for my stoner brother," he says. "Especially if he's finally taking an interest in the business for once in his life."

Sam makes a noise of frustration. "I'm not _taking an interest,_ I just can't stand watching Dad make stupid decisions," he argues. "With that yes-man Rutger around, somebody needs to call him on his bullshit or we'll end up broke."

"Oh, please. He knows what he's doing, Sammy! The man is a genius, and he's been doing this since before you were born. He doesn't need a teenager to tell him how to run his empire."

"Dad's a genius at _computers_. He pretty much sucks at everything else."

"Like what?"

"Like, I don't know, parenting? Socializing? Understanding normal humans?"

"Dad understands normal people," Dean argues. "His entire market strategy is about understanding normal people."

"But he doesn't understand _me!"_ Sam replies, a plaintive note leaking into his voice. "I'm normal, Dean, I'm not crazy, I'm not crazy for wanting to do something different with my life, and Dad acts like I've lost my mind!"

"Well, first of all, let's be clear here: you are crazy," Dean says, with humor. "There are probably millions of nerds who would kill to work with Dad. But you have to understand, Sam, this isn't just Dad's company. It's _our_ company. You and me, we helped build it just as much as him. You just spent six months working on Presenter for free because you thought it was best for the company. You were just telling me that you think Dad needs you to help him keep it afloat! So yeah, turning around and saying you want nothing to do with it seems frigging bipolar at best."

"It's mine, but I didn't choose it," Sam insists. "As long as I'm living under Dad's roof, it's gonna be a part of my life, and I might as well do my best to help. But I'm seventeen, and I gotta start thinking about what I want the rest of my life to look like. We were born into this, like – like some kind of cult! Now that I'm old enough to choose, I'm choosing something else. I don't want to end up like Dad."

"What? _Why not?_" Dean demands incredulously. "He's a billionaire who revolutionized an industry! You don't want to _end up_ like that?!"

"That industry outsources to sweatshops in developing nations," Sam says sharply. "But that's not even – look at Dad, Dean. Mom died sixteen years ago and I don't think he's even dated anyone else. He doesn't have any friends –"

"Oh, for God's sake. You think he's not popular enough?"

"He's alone," Sam insists. "He's completely alone. The only people who spend time with him are people who work for him. And it's because his whole life is work! _That's_ what he wants us to become! I don't want that. I want to actually have friends! Relationships!"

_Unlike you_.

The implication stings in Dean's ears, and he feels something hot and ugly twisting in his stomach, anger gathering in his teeth.

"You think those burnout losers who skulk around you are your friends_?_" he snaps harshly. "You think they hang on your every word because they _like you?_ You're so fucking naïve. We're _rich_, Sam. They know what we have. Whether you walk away from this company or not, your name is gonna follow you, and you are _never_ gonna have normal relationships, because people will lie to you and manipulate you and tell you they love you just so they can use you up and spit you out. You're a Winchester. You don't get to have _friends_. There's only three kinds of people: your family, your employees, and the people who want to fuck you over. Get used to it."

There is silence over the phone.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Sam asks.

"Nothing's wrong with me."

"When did you get this freaking cynical?"

"When I grew up."

"Yeah, well, you grew up into a douche," Sam retorts.

Dean pauses. "Look, Sammy…"

"Don't call me Sammy. It's just 'Sam.'"

"Sam." He takes a breath. "I'm just saying… All we got is family. You don't wanna throw that away just so you can make the homecoming court or something."

"I'm not throwing away our family. I just don't want to work for the company."

Dean sighs. "The company _is_ our family."

Another long silence on the phone.

"I gotta go," Sam says. "I have homework to do."

"Alright."

"Bye."

"Bye."

….

**June, five years ago**

Dean is drinking his way through Sam's law school graduation, because it's the right thing to do.

There isn't anyone else. Dad is dead, Sam's girlfriend is apparently out of town, and when Sam mentioned the ceremony he said it so casually and so nonchalantly that Dean knew it was important to him. Sam insisted that Dean didn't need to come, that it would be really boring and the whole thing was silly, but Dean knew better. The kid was desperate. So even though the graduation is a sharp stinging reminder of how well Sam did without him this past year and just about all of Dean is an open wound, he told Sam that he wanted to come. He just brought his own antiseptic, is all.

Looking through his old suits made him nauseous – _look how stupid you were, what a douche you were, did you think you were important? Did you feel impressive in your expensive tie and your pleated pants, you worthless pretentious fuck?_ – so he just wore a suit jacket over his jeans and a tee shirt. He looks out of place, and every time he tips up his flask the well-to-do couple next to him looks increasingly perturbed, but he doesn't care. He is Dean Winchester, billionaire, and they can all go eat a dick.

They announce Sam's name, and he steps into the spotlight. He has to crouch slightly so the short professor can hang the ceremonial hood around his neck, and everyone laughs. Dean laughs the loudest and claps so hard his hands his hands hurt.

"That's my brother," he tells the couple next to him. "Our dad died last year and he still graduated on time. What a fucking champion."

The couple murmurs warmly, because now they know who he is and everyone is nice to billionaires.

After the ceremony, the audience members and graduates are funneled out to an air conditioned lobby. Dean makes a beeline for the cookies – he needs something to soak up the booze before he starts getting maudlin and useless. Many of the people around recognize him and gawk. A ripple of whispering follows him, and he catches little snippets that seem to cling to his skin –

_that's him – _

_saw him on TMZ – _

_look at what he's – _

_John Winchester – _

_they say he's – _

_absolute mess – _

Dean starts to shovel cookies into his mouth and tries to tune them out. When he looks up again, Sam is right there.

"Fam!" he exclaims through his full mouth. "Fuh graguate! Congraghs!"

"Thanks for coming," Sam says.

Dean swallows and grins. "I'm really just here for the food." He glances around at the other families hugging each other, handing bouquets and presents over to their graduates. "Guess I shoulda got you balloons or something…" He leans in toward Sam and elbows him. "Ah, well. I'll make a note for your next graduation. What's next, med school?"

Sam wrinkles his nose. "Dude, you smell like Kesha."

"Oh, that's just a little something I brought with me." Dean reaches into his jacket and slips the edge of the flask out and chuckles. "Say hello to my little friend…"

Sam's eyes bug out incredulously, and he says, "You're _drunk_."

"Graduations are boring, you said so yourself," Dean says, rolling his eyes. "I woulda fallen asleep otherwise, so I brought something to keep me awake. I'm just trying to be supportive."

Sam glares at him. "You got drunk at my graduation? Christ, I can't take you anywhere. We're in public!"

"So? It's not like public intoxication is a crime, Sammy." He grins at Sam.

Quickly glancing to either side, Sam grabs him by the arm and pulls Dean away from the table, toward an empty corner. "Cut it out!" he hisses sharply in a low voice, his eyes dark and angry. "It's not funny! You need to get your _act_ together, Dean!"

This is the moment that Dean realizes:

Sam is embarrassed.

Sam is embarrassed of him. He's standing here around all his classmates and their families, and he is embarrassed to be seen with his loser drunk tabloid-cover brother – embarrassed of him, _ashamed_ of him, furious that he would draw attention to himself among this respectable company. It all makes sense now – Sam's girlfriend being mysteriously "out of town" the one time Dean would meet her, Sam casually mentioning the ceremony without actually inviting Dean, Sam insisting Dean didn't need to come, it would be _so_ boring – ohhhhhh, it all suddenly makes sense. Sam is ashamed of him, and he was doing his best to dissuade Dean from coming to this place, and Dean's entire body burns hot and cold with the humiliation of it.

Something inside of him turns ruthlessly sharp.

"C'mon, Sammy," he says. "I thought we had an understanding."

Sam frowns. "What are you talking about?"

"You know…" Dean gestures around the auditorium. "You do what makes you happy." He gestures to his breast pocket. "I do what makes me happy. And that's all we really owe each other, right?"

Sam reddens with anger. "Whatever," he snaps. "Are you done?"

Scolding. Scolding him, like a child. Two seconds with him, and his patience has run out.

Dean was an idiot to think Sam wanted him here.

He gives Sam a smirk. "Yeah, I gotta run. Got a date with a ballerina and a burlesque dancer. Two guesses which one's the curvy one."

"I really couldn't give a shit," Sam retorts, and he storms away.

…

**August, three years ago**

Dean is on his best behavior for Sam's wedding, so he only snorts a little bit of coke in the bathroom after he gets there.

He's pacing through the back of the church in search of a bridesmaid, when he happens upon a door that is ajar. He pushes it open and steps inside; surely a hapless unmarried woman in search of some excitement must be in _one_ of these rooms.

Instead, he stumbles upon the bride.

She's standing in front of a full length mirror with a cell phone to her ear. Her flowing white strapless dress hugs her every curve; her blonde hair is curled into perfect ringlets. She looks beautiful – no, not just beautiful, _radiant_. She glows in this dress. "You should see the size of the rock on my finger," she gloats to the phone, turning her hand this way and that. "And the prenup negotiation was a breeze. What's his is mine. I don't know how long this ride is gonna last, but no matter what happens, after today I'll walk away with a chunk of change. This really _is_ the happiest day of my life!" She laughs, and listens for a moment. "No, he's otherwise smart. But trusting, very trusting."

"You got that right," Dean says.

Ruby freezes.

"I gotta call you back," she says. She hangs up and turns to face Dean. "What are you –"

"You know, when you and Sam first got engaged, I ran a background check on you." Dean slides his hands into his pockets and saunters toward her. "As I'm sure you know, Sammy only sees the best in people. While that is an admirable quality, it's not one I share." He smiles tightly. "I'm cynical as fuck. So you can imagine my reaction when it turns out you have a rap sheet as long as my arm! Theft, car prowling, assault –"

Ruby has turned pale, and she steps backward into the mirror. "Dean, I admit, I've made mistakes –"

Dean waves his hand. "Save me the speech! Sam already gave it to me. You came from a bad situation, but you've reformed, you turned your life around, and now you've devoted your life to helping the disenfranchised at the women's shelter. I heard the spiel. And I thought, sure, maybe people change. So, despite my _deep_ misgivings, I thought I'd give you a second chance. And now…" He laughs slightly. "Well, you just lost it."

She frowns at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"What it means is this." Dean looks her in the eye. "You walk away right now. You leave my brother at the altar and you tell him you got cold feet and you never come back, and I will give you twenty million dollars."

She stares at him. "And if I don't?"

Dean shrugs. "I go tell Sam what I just heard, and you get nothing."

Her face hardens, and her eyes glitter.

"What you just heard?" she says. "All you heard was me joking with a friend."

"That's not how it sounded to me."

"And that's what you're going to tell Sam? You think he's going to take your word over mine?" she asks contemptuously. "God, you're an idiot."

"Of course he will," Dean says hotly. "I'm his brother!"

"So _what?_" Ruby demands. "You're also a drunk and a junkie and a flake. When your dad died, it shook Sam's entire world. Where were you? You were out fucking your way through the Bahamas. You weren't there for him." She sticks a finger toward her chest. "_I_ was. I was his rock. I'm what got him through the past three years in one piece, and for the record, I love him more than anybody else in the world."

"Oh yeah? Try saying that without three carats on your hand," Dean retorts.

"Go ahead. Go try and get between me and Sam, and see how far that gets you," she suggests. She steps forward from the mirror, her cheeks flushing with anger and her eyes flinty. "But I'm warning you: if you cross me, I will cut you off. You will not spend holidays with me and Sam. You will not step foot in our home. When we have children, you will never speak to them."

"Sam would never let you pull that shit," Dean breathes.

She shrinks back slightly, and all the anger drops from her face like a curtain falling. Her expression instantly changes to one of nervousness, and she puts a hand to her collarbone. "I don't have anything against Dean, it's just – I feel uncomfortable around him," she says timidly. "He's always drunk or high, you never know what will set him off. And something about him, the way he looks at me… And sometimes, when he hugs me, he…. I don't know, maybe I'm just being silly…" She shudders slightly. "But I just don't _trust_ him, Sam."

And Dean can see it, can envision it perfectly: the exact look on Sam's face, sympathy for Ruby mixed with anger at Dean, and he pulls her close and tells her he understands and he wishes once again that Dean would stop being such a goddamn fuckup ruining his otherwise Norman Rockwell life.

"Forty million, bitch," Dean growls, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'll give you forty million to walk away."

Ruby smirks. "You really are bad at math, aren't you? Sam is worth billions. And like I said…" She waggles her ring finger at him, the diamond sparkling brilliantly. "What's his is mine. All mine."

"I'll give you a billion."

She purses her lips. "If you'd led with that, I would have considered it," she muses. "Now I'm just kinda standing on principle. Shame." She shrugs. "Now, I need to get ready for my wedding, and you need to leave."

"You're nothin' but a bottle-blonde gold-digging skank," Dean snarls, his nose stinging. "Just walk. Away."

The dressing room door slams against the wall.

They spin around.

Sam is standing there, every vein bulging and his neck taut with fury.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sam shouts at Dean.

No. No no no no. Didn't he hear her –

"She's after your money!" Dean says helplessly. "Trust me, Sam, I'm saving you a shitload in alimony –"

Sam grabs him and drags him out of the dressing room by the lapel, shoving him into the hallway. "Get out of my wedding," he snarls.

Dean stumbles to regain his balance. "Sam –"

Sam is breathing fast, and his temples throb. "I can't believe you would do this to me," he spits. "On my wedding day. Get out."

Dean's heart thumps in his chest, he's already losing, and he fights back. "I haven't _done_ anything!" he insists. "Get your head out of your ass, Sam. I didn't fucking kidnap her! All we did was talk!"

"GET OUT!" Sam shouts, shoving him toward the exit.

Dean stumbles again, and he lowers his head, and he pushes the door open and leaves.

….

….

**Today**

Cas takes Dean to an upscale restaurant called _Morceau_.

They're seated at a small booth in the back. Cas is dressed appropriately, back in his usual black suit, but Dean chose jeans and a sport jacket and it does _not_ appear to fit the dress code. The restaurant is dimly lit, like all fancy dining places, with candles on the tables and a menu that doesn't list prices. Soft piano music filters through over the sound of silverware clinking and the murmur of extremely polite conversation.

Dean frowns at all of this.

"How are we supposed to have a private conversation?" he hisses to Cas over the table. "Anybody could be listening! And that's not even covering all the bugs that could –"

Cas doesn't look up from the menu. "It's secure. This restaurant is owned and operated by the Trust."

Dean blinks. "All these people work for the Trust?"

"No. The wait staff do, but most of the patrons are ordinary people." He flips the menu shut. "However, the restaurant is so exclusive that all of them have to make reservations months in advance. This gives the Trust plenty of time to vet them, and anyone with ties to the Syndicate is denied entry."

"Why would the Trust go through all that trouble?"

"So that there is a place where Trust agents can have confidential conversations with people who do not know about the Trust," Cas explains. "You can bring a person here to talk about sensitive information while still maintaining a cover as a stockbroker or a CEO."

Dean is even more confused. "So then why did you bring _me_ here?"

"They have very good risotto."

A waiter comes over and asks what they'll be drinking.

"Laphroaig, an 18 if you got it, neat," Dean orders.

"Water, thank you," Cas says.

As soon as the waiter leaves, Dean leans in and focuses his full attention on Cas. "You need to explain to me why you guys think Sam is connected with the Syndicate."

In response, Castiel pulls a briefcase from under the table that Dean is absolutely certain he did not carry in with him from the car. He unsnaps it and pulls out a manila folder. "The local labor unions in this city are in the pockets of an organized crime family, the Morettis."

Dean points at the briefcase and asks, "Are we just gonna pretend like this is normal?"

"The Morettis are primarily known for their extortion outfit, but they're also involved in prostitution, illegal gambling, and drug smuggling," Cas continues. "The nominal head or 'don' of the family is Tony Moretti, but he's really just a puppet of the Syndicate. His Syndicate liaison has become his right hand and has virtually seized control of the entire organization."

"Ah, the Grima Wormtongue to his Theoden," Dean postulates.

Castiel frowns at him. "I… don't know who that is."

"Lord of the Rings? Really? You haven't watched it?"

"The trilogy is nine hours long in its entirety. Of course I haven't watched it."

"Christ. We'll take a Saturday and – whatever. Back to the mafia."

"This is a photo of the Syndicate woman – Lily Porter." Cas slides over a glossy full-page photo.

It's a city park, with a pretty young woman sitting on a bench, and the photo is clearly taken from afar. Long blonde hair with loose curls falling onto a white wool coat, and an expensive purse in her lap. Sitting at her feet on a long leash is a happy-looking Pomeranian.

"She's hot," Dean comments. "More Sears catalogue than Godfather material, but it takes all kinds, I guess."

Cas slides across another photo.

Same park bench, same woman, except she's looking up and smiling – wide, wide smile full of white teeth. And standing next to her bench, looking down at her, is Sam with his dog.

Dean frowns at Cas. "So what, Sam met her at the dog park? That's your evidence? Did it ever occur to you that it could be a _coincidence?_"

"This was taken five years ago," Castiel replies. "Three hours later, your brother transferred two million dollars to a shell corporation owned by Tony Moretti. Thirty hours later, Councilman John Harris announced that he would not be running for reelection due to health concerns. Your brother ended up with his council seat."

"Okay, but –"

Castiel slides several more photos forward.

Sam and Lily in a coffee shop. Sam and Lily at a bus stop. Sam and Lily in some kind of alleyway, at night. A photo through a window – Sam and Lily in someone's living room. Sam and Lily at the park again. Sam and Lily, Sam and Lily, Sam and Lily.

Dean huffs a laugh and shakes his head. "So far, all you've proven is that he _might_ be having an affair," he says.

Cas's nostrils flare, and he pulls out a sheaf of paper. "There was a transfer of money after every one of these meetings. All to different accounts, but all tracing back to the Syndicate." He hands Dean the papers – detailed logs of each transaction.

Dean scans down the list. "You realize Sam's married, right?" he demands. "His wife, Ruby, she has access to those accounts. She has a criminal record and she's a huge bitch –"

"She also has connections to a drug cartel on the East Coast," Castiel says. "She's the daughter of a crime lord who also worked for the Syndicate."

"Okay!" Dean gestures to the financial log with a flat, exasperated hand. "So maybe _she_ is the one funneling money to the Syndicate, and Sam just met a pretty lady at the park! Jesus! Why is this so hard for you people?!"

Castiel gives him a hard look.

Then he pulls out his phone and pulls up an audio file, and plays it.

"_We need to be more careful. If this comes back to me, it's all moot. I think I should start meeting with someone else_." It's Sam's voice, quiet and low but definitely, unmistakably his voice.

"_I don't think so_." A woman's voice, soft and almost singsong. "_You need to go through me_."

"_Why?_"

"_Because I like you,_" she purrs. "_And I don't trust you._"

"_You can trust me_," Sam says.

"_And why's that?_"

"_Because if the Morettis go down, I go down with them._"

Cas stops the recording.

Dean stares at the phone for a long time.

"I don't know if Sam knows the extent of the Syndicate," Cas says. "I suspect he may believe that he is only dealing with the Moretti family, which is a much smaller criminal organization."

Dean rests his elbows on the table, and puts his head in his hands.

"Dean?"

"Just – give me a second."

Dean sits like that, trying to process the reality of what he just heard. Castiel patiently waits.

The waiter pops over and sets a glass of scotch in front of Dean and a glass of water in front of Castiel.

"Oh thank God," Dean sighs, and he begins gulping it down.

"Are you ready to order?" the waiter asks.

"We'll both have the risotto," Cas says.

"And another of these!" Dean interjects, raising his half empty glass. "Like, three more of these."

Cas exhales heavily.

….

An hour and a half later, Cas pulls up in Dean's driveway.

"You wanna come inside?" Dean asks, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Have a drink or somethin'?"

"I don't drink," Cas answers. "And you've had enough."

Dean rolls his eyes. "I said '_or something_.' I got coffee too, dude."

"Alright."

….

Dean laughs. "So then I said – then I said –" He bursts into laughter again, and then manages to speak. "_Take me with you!_"

Castiel nearly chokes on his coffee and chuckles into the mug, and Dean laughs with him. Then finally Dean wipes his eyes and sighs. "So now you know the story behind the bird tattoo."

They're sitting next to each other at the kitchen table, chairs pulled close together. The sun is just beginning to set outside, and the empty white kitchen is bathed in shades of red and gold, and it feels like they could sit here talking for hours longer.

Cas takes a sip of his coffee. "Once, Meg and I were going get matching tattoos," he says. "For an anniversary present."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "No shit? What happened?"

"I was too scared," Cas admits. "I couldn't go through with it."

"What?" Dean exclaims, laughing incredulously. "Mr. Secret Agent was chicken?! Aren't you the one who pulled a gun on me in your sleep? How were you scared of a _tattoo_?"

"You can contract blood-borne diseases."

"Only if you get tattooed in some guy's _van_ behind the Quickmart! That's why you go to a professional. Christ, Cas…"

"Mistakes happen! It only takes _one_ slip-up to contract hepatitis, Dean!"

"Oh my God. You need help..."

….

Dean swirls the dregs of his coffee in his mug. They've relocated to the more comfortable upholstered sofas in the TV room, and Dean has his feet kicked up on the coffee table. "This Sam stuff," he sighs. "It's fucking with my head, man." He knows this room isn't entirely secure, but he figures he can speak in generalities.

"How so?" Cas asks.

Dean swallows the hard lump in his throat. "I found out pretty early on that… people couldn't be trusted," he says. "There was this group of kids in college… I thought they were my friends, I was even dating one of the girls in the group, and then… Well, let's just say, I heard a conversation they didn't expect me to hear. They were just using me for my connections."

Castiel nods.

"Ever since then, I've always had this attitude that the only people you can trust are family." Dean shrugs. "Sam and I have had our problems. I spent a lot of time thinking that he didn't care about me. But this… this is a whole other level." He shakes his head. "If this is true, then I can't…" He trails off, and drains the last coffee from his mug.

Cas doesn't say anything.

"If you can't trust family, who can you trust?" Dean asks.

Cas considers this. "I've learned… that you can never rely on categories," he says slowly. "Family. Spouse. Friend. These are just labels. They can be given to anyone. You have to look at each person individually."

"But I _have_," Dean says, rubbing his forehead. "I grew up with Sam, I… I know him better than anyone. Except I guess…" He wipes his hand down his face and slumps back into his chair. "I guess I don't know him at all."

Cas watches him for a moment.

Finally Cas says, "It's possible that I'm wrong. There may be an explanation."

Dean's mouth tightens into a hard line. "Sure it's possible. But is it probable?"

Cas looks away from Dean.

….

"Samwise Gamgee, you shit-fer-brains piss-poor excuse for a halfling!" Dean yells at the screen. "You can't even fucking swim! What the fuck are you thinking?!"

Frodo reaches in the water, manages to grab Sam's hand, and pulls him into the boat.

"It was the depth of his loyalty," Castiel comments. "He wanted to prove he would follow him to the end."

"Well, his loyalty ain't gonna be worth jack shit if he's _dead_."

"True."

The_ Fellowship of the Rings_ ends, and the credits roll.

"I should go," Cas says, standing up and yawning. "It's getting late."

"You can always stay here," Dean says, looking up at him. "I don't mean stay tonight, you don't have to stay tonight, obviously, but I just mean that if you ever need to crash here or it's late or whatever, you can always. Um. Just set up camp in one of the guest rooms. Or I could have my driver take you home! If you're bushed, and you don't wanna drive. Whatever you want."

Castiel looks down at him for a long moment.

He has the strangest urge to reach down and put his hand on Dean's head and stroke back his hair. It's paternal, almost. Like saying goodnight to a child scared of the dark, and wanting reassure him that you will be there when he wakes up.

"Thank you," Cas says. "I'm fine to drive."

Dean nods quickly and gets to his feet. "Good! Great. I guess – bye, then."

Castiel cocks his head, and after a moment of internal debate, he steps forward and hugs Dean.

Dean stands stiffly in his arms, his shoulders hitched up around his ears. "What in God's name are you doing?"

Cas releases him. "Hugging. Friends hug goodbye."

"No, no, no." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "Were you raised on goddamn Mars? What you just did, that was a full body encirclement. That's a 'sorry you have cancer' hug. Men don't hug goodbye like that. Here, I'll show you a man hug." He puts his hand out.

Cas tentatively takes it, as though about to shake hands.

"Okay. Now you grab like so, and you bring it in…" Dean pulls his hand in so that their clasped hands hit his chest, and he reaches around Cas with his other arm. "And then a _single_ pat on the back with your free hand, and then you let go. _That_ is how you hug with dignity. How did you get this far in life without learning that?"

"I don't normally hug," Cas answers. "I prefer handshakes."

"Then why did you hug _me_?" Dean exclaims.

"You…" Cas clears his throat, and feels his face heating. "You seemed like you needed it."

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes. "You got some wires crossed, buddy. But I know you meant well." He pats Cas on the shoulder and says, "Now scram or I'll start telling you what happens at the end of _Two Towers_."

"Goodnight," Cas says, and he dutifully makes his way to the exit. "I'll come by tomorrow at eleven."

"Git!" Dean orders.

As soon as Cas leaves, Dean returns to his bedroom and goes to bed. He lies there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, but as hard as he tries he can't fall asleep. So he just closes his eyes and lets his mind run through every photo again like a slideshow – Sam and Lily, Sam and Lily, Sam and Lily.

_If the Morettis go down, I go down with them_.

He remembers Sam, living in a hut in Cambodia, telling Dean how unconscionable it was to be part of the corporate machine.

He remembers Ruby, on her wedding day. _You weren't there for him. I was_.

She got him into this somehow, Dean knows it. Maybe if he can just talk to Sam, they can sort all this out. Maybe it's all just a big misunderstanding.

Maybe.

He lies awake, and wonders who else around him is leading a double life.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: _I DIDN'T FORGET ABOUT YOU, MY DARLINGS. Oh, when I said this chapter might be delayed, I didn't mean THIS delayed, you poor poor things. YOU'VE PROBABLY ALREADY FORGOTTEN THE ENTIRE STORY. I'm going to be a lot quicker with the next chapters, I promise to you. I've moved, and I started my new job, and things will be a lot more regular from now on. Thank you SO MUCH for your patience, those of you who are still with me. Your reward for reviewing this chapter is ONE THOUSAND MILLION JOYFUL HUGS. Oh - I guess that's technically a billion. Whatever. ONE BILLION JOYFUL HUGS._

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**5:17 am **

Louise yawns and stretches her back as she hobbles into the kitchen and flips on the lights. The mornings are the worst time for her joints, but she's still a morning person. Always has been, always will be.

The man slumped at the kitchen island is not a morning person.

"Dean?"

His face is turned away from her, his arms crossed over the countertop and his chin propped on his bicep, facing out the window. His voice is low. "That's my name. Don't wear it out."

"What are you doing up?" Louise crosses over to him and plants herself in front of him.

"Couldn't sleep." He shrugs his shoulders slightly. "Made a sandwich. Ate it. Still awake."

"Maybe you should try lying quietly in your bed," Louise suggests, "instead of hunching in the kitchen in the dark."

Dean's eyes flicker up to her, and he smiles a soft, affectionate smile.

Louise sits down on the stool next to him, and puts a hand to the small of her back to still the persistent ache. "What's on your mind?"

His eyes go back to the window, and glaze over distantly. "Nothin'."

Louise snorts. "I thought you were a better liar than that."

"Let me try again." He sits up with a slight groan and cracks his knuckles, then leans on his elbow thoughtfully. "You know, Louise, I just keep thinking about this one chick who I owe some money to. I told her I would give her a few grand, back at my big party right before I ran off to Vegas a few weeks ago but – here's the kicker – I can't actually remember her name! It was something weird I think – Cajun? Chipotle? Something spicy, I don't know. It's drivin' me nuts! All I know is that she's a hot, willowy blonde who'll do weird shit for cash."

Louise gives him a deprecating look. "That's Cayenne. She left you a message."

Dean snaps his fingers. "_Cayenne!_ That was it. Thanks Louise, now I'll rest easy."

"Better," Louise says, "but I can still tell."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but I _told_ you I was lying."

"I still would have known," she replies. "What is it?"

Dean looks at her for a moment. "You really wanna know?"

Louise sighs exasperatedly. "Would I have asked otherwise?"

He looks down at the countertop, and his mouth screws up tight, and he clears his throat. He scratches at the edge of the counter with his fingernail, and stares at his fingers.

"I don't remember my mom very well," he says. "I was only four when she died, and… I know her face, but I think it's mostly from photographs. My brain has jumbled the pictures together, mixed in with the memories. My memories of her – my real memories – mostly her face isn't there. I was so small, and she was so much bigger; to me she was all legs and arms, and even those not really clear…." He clears his throat again, and swallows. "In my memories, it's not so much her body I remember, it's more like… a presence with me. Like a warm shadow. She was just _there_, and I knew she was there, and everything was good." His eyes dart up to Louise anxiously. "Does that make any sense?"

Louise nods.

He sighs. "It was so hard for me when she died. I understood her death. I don't know how or why, but somehow I understood that she was gone and she was never coming back. And I've been so – so fucking self-centered all this time, I just assumed that that was the worst thing that could happen to a kid, to have your mom ripped away from you and have nothing left but memories." He looks Louise in the eyes. "But can you imagine what it must have been like for Sam? To not even have memories… To never even feel that warm shadow…" He swallows and exhales shakily, his voice hoarsening. "He grew up in the cold."

Then he stands up abruptly and turns away from Louise. He walks to the window and clears his throat again.

Louise stands up, her back protesting again, and walks over to his side. "Sam had something you never did," she says. "He had a big brother."

Dean stares out the window. His nostrils flare. "Lotta good that did him."

"It must have," Louise points out. "He's shaping up to be a senator."

Dean presses a hand to his mouth, and he squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his head, and he whispers through his fingers, "_Fuck_."

"What?"

He shakes his head. "I was all he had, Louise," he whispers, his voice quavering. "I was all he had, and I failed him."

Louise hesitates.

What she _should_ do is pretend that she doesn't know what he is talking about. She should pretend she has no inkling of the many ways Dean could have failed Sam, in his actions and in his words, over the past six years that he has spent fleeing his responsibilities and drugging himself into believing his own lies. She should go get Kelly, who is very good at making soothing noises and hugging. That is what she should do.

But instead, she tells him, "Failure is not a finish line."

Dean looks at her.

"When you fail at something, that doesn't mean you get to give up," Louise says. "It means you try again. You try differently. You learn from your mistakes. If you feel you have 'failed' Sam in some way, then you should try to change that. You can't write off the rest of your lives when you're not even forty."

"I'm trying to change," Dean says softly. "But I think it's too late for us."

"It's not too late," Louise says firmly. "You're both still here, aren't you?"

Dean nods slowly.

"For what it's worth, I see something – different, in you," she says haltingly. "There is a sadness in you that you – you've tried to push down, push away, escape, and I can see that you… are letting yourself feel it, now."

"Great," Dean mutters.

"You've apologized to Sam in the past," she continues. "But you would never accept blame. Your apologies rang hollow." She shrugs. "Perhaps now, things will be different."

He considers this silently.

"Now, go back to bed," she orders him. "Castiel won't be here until eleven."

"But I'm not tired anymore," he insists.

"Yes you are. Go to bed, or I'll wake up Miguel and make him scrub the floors."

Dean makes an outraged face. "You would take it out on _Miguel?_ An innocent bystander?"

Louise raises her eyebrows and narrows her eyes. "Though the sovereign child may not be disciplined by a commoner, his punishment may be inflicted on the whipping boy."

Dean squares his shoulders and glares at her. "You win this time," he declares. "Damn my bleeding heart."

Louise walks past him and goes to make her coffee. "You've gone soft, Winchester."

….

**7:31 am **

Dean is stopped by security before he even gets to the front door.

"Hey," says Bill, one of the morning guards, striding quickly across the dew-dampened lawn to cut him off at the pass. "You know the rules, Dean."

"Just tell him I'm here," Dean says, putting his hands up complacently. "Tell him I'm sober. I gotta see him, Bill, I gotta talk to Sam."

Bill eyes him critically. "Oh yeah? Then why didn't you just call?"

Dean grins sheepishly. "I hoped he would, uhhh, be moved by my charming face?"

Bill huffs a sarcastic laugh. "Stay here." He radios for his backup to watch Dean and heads inside.

Dean stands there in the clear morning light, taking in the scent of fresh-cut grass and the clean practical lines of Sam's suburban manor house, white and boxy and wholesome. A family home. _A soccer mom's wet dream,_ he thinks. But that's not fair. There was a time when this was Dean's secret dream, in his heart of hearts. When it seemed distant, but possible.

That was a long time ago.

When the door opens again, Ruby stands in the doorway. She's wearing a robe and her blonde hair is tousled, but it's a deliberate tousling – calculated, a marking of her conquest, just like the bare legs under her robe.

"What are you doing here?" she asks flatly. "Sam doesn't want to see you."

"Then he should tell me to my face," Dean challenges, smiling tightly. "And you should really go put some clothes on, sweetheart. This is a nice neighborhood."

Ruby rolls her eyes. "You showed up unannounced at seven in the morning, Dean. I'll answer the door in pasties and a thong if I damn well feel like it."

"Oh ho, I bet the kids next door would love that!" Dean exclaims, stepping closer. "And the National Enquirer, and the Daily Star, and In Touch, and…"

"What do you want, Dean?" she sighs, her eyes half-lidded in boredom.

"I want to talk to Sam. I just want to have a conversation."

"Yeah, well, last time you talked to Sam, you punched him in the face," she comments. "So I'm not suuuuuper confident that you know what a 'conversation' actually is."

Dean clenches his fists. "I'm trying to apologize."

She raises her eyebrows. "Apologize. Another word you don't seem to know the meaning of." She tilts her head and narrows her eyes at him. "You know, I've always wondered if you had some sort of weird undiagnosed learning disability. Some kind of emotional dyslexia, maybe –"

"Enough foreplay," Dean interrupts. "You gonna let me see Sam or not?"

"Or maybe you're just _stupid_," she continues, contempt biting in her voice. "Sam got the brains, and you got…" She looks him up and down, and smirks. "No, he got the brawn, too. Huh."

And Dean takes another few steps, just close enough to make the guards at the edge of the lawn shift their weight. "I used to think you hated me because I saw through your little games," he says. "But it's so clear to me now. That wasn't it at all. You hate me because… you're jealous."

She frowns. "Jealous of what? Your mansion? Your car collection? Your _tigers_? Newsflash, Dean: I'm a billionaire. There is nothing you have that I can't buy."

"That's not true," Dean counters. He looks her steadily in the eyes. "All these years, you've devoted your life to Sam. You stood by his side, pastel blazers and winning smiles, always on, always nice – you reduced yourself to a polished bobblehead. A politician's wife. All for him. And sure, you're mostly in it for the money, but you also like attention, and he is attentive. He loves you, he really does." The edge of his mouth curves up, and his teeth glint. "But I'm the one he worries about. When he gets the call at 3 am, he climbs out of bed with you and rushes out to rescue _me_. It's just how Sam is – he wants to be the hero. He wants to save the world. He loves to _fix_ people." Dean leans forward and points his finger at her, his voice hard and low. "And as perverse and irrational as you know it is, when you look at me you are fucking _sick with envy_, because you know that no matter how much Sam loves you, I will _always_ be more broken."

Silence cuts across the lawn. A single bird tweets.

Ruby stares at him, her bangs falling halfway over her eyes, and her jaw clenches tight.

"Tell Sam I came by," Dean says, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Or don't. I'm sure he'll find out somehow." And he walks back to his cab.

…..

**11:00 am**

"He said he doesn't want to see you," Kelly says. "But I think you should try to get him to let you in."

"Is he drunk?" Castiel asks.

Tina wrings her hands. "We don't know. He locked the door."

"He wouldn't come out for steak," Jeff says glumly. "That's… not a good sign."

"Does anyone know why he's upset?"

"He was up early this morning, worrying about fixing things with Sam," Louise answers. "I sent him back to bed, and when Kelly went to wake him up at ten, he had already holed up in there."

Castiel frowns. "I need to talk to him."

"_I _think everyone should just leave him be," Louise declares. "He'll come out eventually."

"He has an entire liquor cabinet in there," Miguel insists. "What if he passes out and chokes?"

"His bracelet will indicate if he's in physical distress," Castiel replies. "He's not in any danger. But… I still need to talk to him."

So everyone else leaves, and Castiel knocks on the door of the master bathroom.

"Dean. It's me." He pauses. "Castiel Smith."

"Go away, Cas."

"I came to pick you up."

"I told them to send you home. Just go."

"Why?"

Dean doesn't respond.

"You should unlock the door," Castiel says. "I don't want to have to break it."

Several seconds of silence, and then footsteps, and the clicking of the lock. The sound of footsteps retreating.

Castiel opens the door.

Dean sits with his knees pulled up in his enormous empty Jacuzzi bathtub, fully clothed, a bottle of whiskey laying on its side next to him. The cap is screwed tight, the bottle is half full, and there is no scent of alcohol; he doesn't appear to have been drinking it. His face is pale and his eyes are red and slightly swollen, and he won't look at Cas.

Castiel climbs into the tub and sits across from him.

"You should go," Dean says thickly.

"What happened at Sam's house?"

Dean blinks at him. "How do you –"

"Your bracelet," Cas explains. "It tracks your location."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Yes you do."

"No I don't!" Dean snaps. "Why would I lock myself alone in a bathroom if I wanted to talk about it?!"

"Because you didn't want to talk to the others," Castiel explains patiently. "You knew the lock would keep them out. You knew I would come in anyway."

"What was I supposed to do? Pull an Edgar Allen Poe and _brick_ myself in?" Dean demands. "Don't flatter yourself, pal. I didn't give it even one _tenth_ of that much thought."

"What happened at Sam's house?" he asks again.

Dean glares at him. "You gonna keep harpin' on about this?"

"Until you tell me," Castiel confirms.

Dean groans exasperatedly and hangs his head. "You're the fucking worst."

Castiel waits.

After a few seconds of silence, Dean takes a deep breath, and answers.

"I didn't even get to see Sam," he says. "He wouldn't come to the door, and I'm… not exactly allowed on their property, anymore. But it was the weirdest damn thing." He picks up the bottle of whiskey and gazes at it, rubbing his thumb along the smooth glass. "I talked to Ruby. And I was – scathing. Cutting. I said exactly what I wanted to say, and it just flowed out of me perfectly. And I know it was because I was sober. I couldn't have torn her apart like that, drunk. I would have just… shouted." A rueful smile hints at his mouth, but then his eyes redden and he blinks quickly. He sets the bottle down and rests his hands on his knees. "But then I actually heard what I'd said to her. And I what I'd said was that the reason Sam keeps coming back, again and again, is because I'm so broken. And I realized… it's true." He wipes a hand down his face. "All this time, I was so angry that Sam treated me like a burden, that he was resentful of having to take care of me. I couldn't see that… I kept doing that shit… because being a burden was the only way I – I kept him – in my life –" He buries his face in his hands and presses into his knees, shoulders shaking.

Castiel clambers over from his side of the tub and sits down by Dean. He picks up the bottle of whiskey and sets it on the other side of him, out of Dean's reach.

"I'm gonna – I'm gonna lose him," Dean sobs into his hands. "Thought I already had, I'm so stupid, at least he was _here_ –"

"Dean." Cas puts a hand on his shoulder.

Dean yanks away from him and curls in tighter, still sobbing. "Get – off! L-leave me some fucking d-dignity…"

Cas pulls back from him, gives him his space. "I know you don't see it this way, but… this is a good thing."

"How?" Dean pleads, scrubbing his eyes and choking back his tears. "_How_ is this possibly good? If I get my shit together, Sam leaves. If I don't get my shit together, Sam leaves. And either way, he ends up with the fucking _Syndicate_ –"

"You're starting to see your behavior for what it really is," Cas explains softly. "You've stopped lying to yourself."

"Six years too late," Dean says bitterly, wiping his cheeks. "I left _him_, in the beginning. Dad died, and I abandoned him. I could've walked back to open arms, Cas, but I kept pushing him away, because I wanted him to pull me back, and he never did. And now it's too late."

"It's not too late."

Dean's nostrils flare, and he glares wet-eyed at Cas. "People keep saying that to me today. And it sounds like a crock of shit."

"This is just the beginning," Cas insists. "We have so much more work to do, and you will have many more opportunities to reconnect with Sam. But in the meantime…" He puts a hand on Dean's shoulder again, hoping this time he won't recoil. "You're making good progress, Dean."

Dean looks down at his knees. "Feels like I'm running in circles," he mutters.

Castiel stands up and climbs out of the tub. "I want you to come see something," he says. "I think it might give you direction." He offers Dean his hand.

Dean looks at Cas, takes his hand, and pulls himself out of the tub.

…..


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: _My delightful dandelions! Thank you so much for all sticking with me during my extended absence. It was so gratifying to see that my readers were still here! This chapter is a bit short, but the next one will be coming Forthwith. (AKA, in about a week and a half.) I'm living completely alone for the first time EVER, and I just moved to this new town, so you guys are what passes for my social life at the moment. Even if I don't get a chance to respond to your comments, I read them and appreciate them all. Unless your comment is something like, "omfg ur story dumb. y cas &amp; deen so dumb? y is they 2 dumb 2 kiss?" _

_Haha, no, just kidding. That comment would be amazing and I would cherish it forever. _

_Your reward for reviewing this chapter is... A bunch of bills I have to pay! Here you go! They're yours now, my child! All for you! Bye bye now! Take care! Make sure to pay those bills! _

_Enjoy the chapter. _

* * *

Dean rides slumped in the passenger seat, lost in thought, his mind running through the things he'd said to Ruby over and over and over.

"Why didn't you drink?" Cas asks.

Dean blinks. "Huh?"

"In the bathroom," Cas explains. "You had the whiskey with you. But you didn't drink. Why not?"

Dean sits up straighter and squints accusingly at him. "Why are you always asking me heavy questions in the car, man? Can't you just – enjoy the scenery?"

"It's harder for you to escape in the car."

"You wanna bet?" Dean retorts. "I will open this door and drop and roll, I swear to God."

"That would be dangerous."

"I live dangerously!"

"If you do that, I won't come back for you." Cas glances over at him. "Do you even have a phone on you?"

Dean glares at the windshield.

"Payphones are scarce these days," Cas comments.

"I didn't drink the _whiskey_ because I knew you were _coming_!" Dean rants loudly. "There, are you happy now?"

Cas frowns. "You were waiting on me?"

"Of course I was waiting on you!" Dean snaps back. "You tell me not to drink before you show up, I didn't drink before you showed up! What's the fucking problem?!"

"Why are you so angry?"

"Because I _didn't_ drink and you're acting like I did something wrong!"

"Dean." Cas's hands tighten on the steering wheel, and his voice hardens. "You locked yourself in the bathroom and sat in an empty bathtub with a bottle of whiskey. Of course I have questions."

Dean crosses his arms and huffs in irritation.

"But you don't need to get defensive." Cas glances at him. "It's just me."

"It's… childish," Dean mutters, looking out the window. "Me, waiting for permission. Following rules. It's fucking childish."

Cas takes a deep breath. "Last night, I wasn't sure what you were going to do," he admits. "I avoided telling you about Sam for a long time because… I didn't know how you would react. I know it must have been difficult to hear, and I was worried… And then when I saw you'd been to Sam's house…" He glances at Dean again, and purses his lips.

Dean frowns at him. "So you _expected_ me to drink?"

"No." There's a strange rough tinge to Cas's voice, but his face is carefully even. "But I'm glad that you didn't. Truly, Dean, I…." His adam's apple bobs. "I'm glad."

"Whatever floats your boat, dude," Dean mumbles, his arms twisting tighter.

"You are stronger than most people know," Cas says. "Sometimes even I forget."

"Right," Dean sighs wearily. "Cuddling the Jack Daniel's and crying like a little girl: the mark of an iron will."

Cas gives him a slight smile. "I suppose you would have preferred white-knuckled stoicism?"

Dean snorts. "Is there any other kind of stoicism?"

"Expressing your emotions honestly isn't weakness," Cas says.

"Yeah, because you're such an open book, right?" Dean looks over at him searchingly. "How many people have you 'expressed' in front of in the last eight years?"

"I don't see how that's relevant," Castiel says stiffly.

Dean smirks. "I thought so."

"Don't smirk at me," Cas growls. "I am emotionally expressive."

Dean laughs a bright, full laugh.

"What? I am!" Cas insists.

"No, what _you_ are is a guy who says weirdly blunt shit about his feelings," Dean retorts. "You don't _show_ anything. Two seconds ago you told me you were so 'glad' I didn't drink, and you didn't even crack a smile – in fact, I'm pretty sure you were trying your damnedest to look casual."

"What does it matter, whether I communicate through words or facial expression?" Cas asks.

"It makes it easier to hide," Dean replies. "You filter everything, man, you sanitize it. What happened with me today, that was messy. That was ugly. You keep everything so – so –" he makes a tight rectangular gesture with his hands – "so _tidy_."

Cas is quiet for a moment.

He looks over at Dean, and for a second Dean can read exactly what he's thinking, right there in his face, because Dean thought it too, the second the words left his mouth.

"You were drunk," Dean says. "Doesn't count."

Cas looks back to the road.

They turn off onto a narrow road with prominent speed limit signs – school zone, 20 miles per hour.

"Hey," Dean says, sitting up, "I think I know this–"

A low building comes into view, concrete painted bright yellow, with a large bare playground surrounded by a chain link fence and a sign that declares it is "Ridge Hill Elementary."

"My old school?" Dean asks disbelievingly. "My _elementary_ school?"

Cas parks the car. "Let's go inside."

Dean stares at him. "You want to bring me around children? Have you lost your fucking marbles?"

Castiel gives him a humored look. "They're on summer break."

"Oh. Right." Dean blinks and frowns at the school. "Wait, then why are we here?"

Cas unbuckles his seatbelt. "Let's go inside."

….

The inside of the building is showing its age a little more than the exterior. The hallway linoleum is clean but faded, and the carpeting in the office lobby has seen better days. It's different than when Dean and Sam went here, it's undergone several renovations since then, but there's a mural on the wall of the school mascot (an unhinged-looking grinning badger) that has been left intact. The whole building smells faintly of lemon floor cleaner.

"Shouldn't this place be locked?" Dean asks.

"I made an appointment," Cas answers. "We'll meet one of the staff in the library."

They pass an old glass display case, and Dean stops in his tracks.

"What the fuck," he breathes.

On the top shelf, above the back-to-school decorations and unconvincing declarations that "Math is Fun," sits a photo portrait of John Winchester, smiling warmly for the camera. Under the picture is a printed quote that Dean is certain John never said: "Nothing is impossible. You just need enough determination, and enough time." The photo is framed with a zigzag border of blue glitter glue and yellow rickrack, and next to him is a construction paper shooting star.

"He gave this school a lot of money," Castiel comments.

"I know," Dean says, still staring, "but Christ, this is weird. Look at him, he's _smiling_. And the glitter!"

Cas smiles. "I like the glitter."

"You're sick," Dean mutters.

Cas takes him by the elbow. "Let's get to the library."

The left side of library is crowded with wide, waist-high wooden bookshelves and the walls are papered in brightly colored posters about the joys of reading. To the right are several low plastic tables with chairs stacked on top of them, and up against the wall is a long bank of computers. The whole room has a familiar, homey feel, even though it's totally different from the library of Dean's youth.

Dean walks over to the computers and inspects at them more closely. They're old, a good five or six years old, though they appear to be in good shape, and there's only ten of them. It's not what he was expecting. Maybe the Foundation –

"Hello! You must be Castiel Smith."

Dean turns around to see a woman shaking Cas's hand.

What a woman.

She has dark brown hair, a bright, beaming smile, long legs, tan skin, and even though she's just wearing jeans and a loose t-shirt she is absolutely gorgeous in every conceivable way.

"Ms. Braeden," Cas greets her. "Thank you for meeting us."

"Please, call me Lisa," she says warmly, as she glances behind Cas to make eye contact with Dean, "and I –"

She freezes.

"Oh," she says, eyes wide. "Oh. Hello. You're – you're –"

"Dean Winchester." He offers his hand and smiles.

She shakes his hand in a daze, gazing into his eyes without blinking. "Hi," she says faintly. "Hi, I'm Lisa."

"So I've heard," he replies amiably.

Castiel looks between the two of them expectantly, almost eagerly.

_I've been set up_, Dean realizes.

Lisa shakes her head and laughs in embarrassment. "Sorry, wow, I'm not normally this star-struck, you just caught me by surprise. Castiel didn't mention he was bringing you. I wasn't expecting to meet a billionaire today."

"Lisa is the librarian here and the tech coordinator for the building," Castiel informs him.

"Actually, I had a question about the computers," Dean mentions, glancing back at the dated monitors. "How old are they?"

Lisa blows air out of the side of her mouth. "Gosh, the monitors have been here longer than I have. They're probably going on five years now, but we replaced the hard drives a couple of years ago."

"The Foundation wouldn't pay for the monitors?" Dean asks.

Lisa frowns at him, puzzled. "The Foundation?"

"The Mary Winchester Foundation," he clarifies. "They're supposed to be funding all your technology. My brother and I went to school here, and it our family's way of giving back."

Lisa shrugs apologetically. "I'm sorry, as long as I've been here we haven't applied for or received any grants from the Mary Winchester Foundation." She glances at Cas and chews the inside of her lip. "If you want to contribute, though… Castiel said that you might be interested in making a charitable donation? I prepared some materials about our budgeting needs and school demographics."

Dean glances sideways at Cas.

Cas looks back at him blankly.

So, with a slightly nervous grin, Dean turns back to Lisa and claps his hands together. "Okay, talk to me, Lisa. What are we looking at?"

….

"Thank you so much," Lisa says gratefully as she walks them to the front of the school, her hand on Dean's left arm. "Really, I can't thank you enough. You're really going to make a difference to these kids."

Walking on Dean's right, Castiel quickly palms something into his hand. Dean glances down, and sees that it's a business card with Dean's name and phone number.

"Well, as a wise woman once sang to me, I believe the children _are_ our future," Dean says sagely. "It's the least I could do. Let me give you my card…" And he pretends to take the card from his pocket.

"I'll go bring the car around," Cas volunteers, and then he quickly vanishes.

Pausing in the doorway, Dean hands Lisa the card and gives her what he hopes is a charming, easygoing smile. "Call me if anything comes up."

"Sure thing!" she answers brightly.

"Like, if you guys have a fundraiser or something," he suggests. "Or, if you get invited to somebody else's fundraiser, and you need a date. Or, if nobody's having a fundraiser and you just feel like getting dinner with an _incredibly_ generous billionaire. Ring me up."

Lisa giggles and blushes slightly, biting her lower lip. "Wow, that's sweet of you, but you're not really my type."

"Oh," Dean says, face falling. He turns to leave. "Okay. Anyway, nice meeting y–"

"No!" Lisa exclaims, grabbing his arm. "You're supposed to ask me what my type is!"

Dean turns back in surprise. "I am?"

"Duh! I was setting up a punchline, and you ruined it!" she insists.

"Well, how was I supposed to know that?" he asks.

"I was giving you _the signal_."

"What signal?"

"I _bit_ my lip. I _looked down_ demurely," Lisa explains exasperatedly, smacking the back of her hand against her other palm for emphasis. "I _giggled_. This is Flirting 101, Dean."

"Start over, let me try again," Dean suggests. "I'll nail it."

She looks at him dubiously. "You sure? You're gonna do it right this time?"

Dean rolls his shoulders to loosen them and plants his feet shoulder-width apart. "Hit me. I'm ready."

Lisa backs up, clears her throat, and looks down at the ground. She raises her eyes coyly, bites her lip, and says, "Sorry, you're just not my type."

Dean raises a single eyebrow. "Your… type?"

She makes a mock-apologetic wince and sucks her breath in between her teeth. "Yeahhhh, I'm more about dating men who make me immediately regret my choices," she explains. "Like… a felon who needs a place to crash for a few weeks. Or a biker who's behind on his child support. That's the kind of guy I date. Not young, handsome trust-fund philanthropists." Then she grins at him. "Nailed it!"

And just like that, Dean snaps back to reality.

With a sinking sensation in his stomach, he gives her a lopsided smile, and says, "You don't really read the tabloids, do you?"

Her wide smile shrinks a little and her eyes soften. "I read them. But I don't usually believe them."

"Everything they say about me is true," he admits.

She raises her eyebrows. "You have a secret love child with Ellen DeGeneres and only six months left to live?"

He snorts. "Okay, not _everything_. But I'm not a philanthropist, Lisa. At least, not yet. And I'm not some kind of model citizen. When it comes down to it, I'm an unemployed alcoholic on probation."

Lisa looks at him thoughtfully, and touches the card to her chin.

For just a second, Dean forgets to exhale, and all the air in his lungs is trapped burning tight in his chest.

She purses her lips. "Hmm. Maybe you are my type after all." And with that, she turns on her heel and walks back down the hall.

"Are you – are you gonna call me?" Dean calls after her.

"Maybe!" she answers over her shoulder.

"Maybe," Dean murmurs to himself, unable to tear his eyes away.

She turns the corner and disappears into the library.

….

"Well, _that_ was an ambush," Dean says, buckling his seatbelt. "A meet-cute, that's what you dragged me out of the house for?"

"I brought you because of the computers," Castiel says. "I'm glad you noticed them."

"Yeah, that was fucking weird," Dean admits. "When did the Foundation stop funding them?"

Cas pulls out of the school parking lot. "When your father died."

"But that doesn't make any sense," Dean insists. "The Foundation is a separate organization. Dad created it to manage the company's charitable giving, but he didn't run it. That was the whole point – he didn't want to have to manage that shit. The company funnels money in to them, and then they have their own board and officers who decide what to do with it. So why would they cut this grant just because Dad died?"

"Perhaps you should talk to some people at the Foundation," Cas suggests.

Dean considers this. "Maybe I'll call Jo. She's friends with one of their directors. See if she can ask around."

"It was nice of you to donate the money."

Dean looks askance at him. "I thought that's what you wanted me to do!"

"I wanted you to handle it however you saw fit," Cas replies. "You could have told her that you needed to talk to the Foundation first. Instead, you filled the deficit. It won't always be that easy of a fix, but this time... I think you did the right thing."

"What's _bogus_ is that they even need the money," Dean grumbles. "The PCs they want are cheap as shit, and any kid today who can't use a computer might as well start practicing their fucking burger-flip technique. Ridge Hill is a public school on the bad side of a goddamn _wealthy_ county. Where is that tax money going? There is no reason they should have to be begging for pennies so they can buy their goddamn necessities. It's a fucking outrage!"

There is a smile curling at the corner of Castiel's mouth.

"What?" Dean barks.

Cas looks over at him and says, "How would you like to do something about it?"

Dean blinks. "What do you mean?"

"Welcome to politics," Cas says warmly. "You just discovered your first cause."

Dean blinks again and settles into his seat.

It's a direction.

….

When they arrive back at Dean's house around one o'clock, Louise meets them at the door. Her face is drawn and her eyebrows are knotted tight.

"Crap, don't tell me the penguins got loose again!" Dean sighs. "Cas and I have two, count them, TWO more Lord of Rings films to watch, and I don't need the entire fucking house smelling like fish –"

"You have a visitor waiting for you on the back patio," she says.

"Cayenne?" he guesses. "Shit, how long has she been here?" He barges past Louise and strides quickly across the foyer, half-jogging to the patio.

He bursts through the French doors and starts talking loudly before she can start. "Listen, I _told_ Louise to just pay you what I o–"

He freezes.

The person sitting on the deck chair is not Cayenne.

"Hey," Sam says. "You got a minute?"


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: _My anxious anchovies! I know you have been eagerly awaiting this update since I left you on a TERRIBLY cruel cliffhanger last chapter. Let me tell you, the universe tried to keep this chapter from happening. My computer charger cord broke, work was insane, and then today I accidentally roped myself into seeing a **2 and half hour** holiday concert (I ended up leaving at intermission. It was a good concert, but my GOD I have things to do, people!) But I struggled through it all for YOU, my dear readers, ALL FOR YOU.  
_

_And lo, after the struggle, I had accomplished the improbable and finished the dang chapter. Thank you so much for all your wonderful reviews on the last chapter, I really appreciated them. Your reward for reviewing this chapter is... *looks around apartment* A pile of unmatched socks! Hooray! All for you! Every sock is a magical opportunity to reunite it with its long-lost mate! ALL FOR YOU!_

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

Sam waits expectantly, cargo shorts and yellow polo shirt, sitting calmly in the late summer sun.

Dean stands there, frozen.

Finally he says, "Yeah, yeah – of course, just let me go – check – something…" And he darts back inside.

He finds Cas walking briskly down the hall towards the patio. He grabs him by the arm and hisses, "It's Sam. Can you clear the study in 30 seconds?"

Cas nods and strides off to the study.

Dean returns to Sam and smiles at him, a hospitable smile from a concierge to a guest – polite, expected, routine. "Why don't we talk inside? I got sunburnt the other day and I'm still feeling it."

Sam shrugs and stands up.

By the time they arrive at their destination, Castiel is nowhere to be seen. The study is an ornate old-fashioned office accented in brown leather and oak, and it's a little pretentious for an afternoon chat: a great upholstered chair behind a behemoth block of a desk, a brass cocktail table with a scotch decanter and tumblers, a massive empty fireplace, oil paintings of 18th century ships and walls papered in oppressive maroon. There's a reason Dean hasn't been in here in ages, but it'll have to do. He pulls out two smaller chairs in front of the enormous desk and sits down on one. "What did you want to talk about?" he asks.

Sam glances around the study, and glances at the chair across from Dean. He stays standing. He gives Dean a strange look, one eye narrowed suspiciously and his lower lip tightened inward, as though he's trying to decide whether this is all some big joke.

Dean smiles again and then kicks himself mentally. Too much smiling and he'll freak Sam out.

"Well, for starters," Sam begins, "you showed up at my house this morning and said some really weird crap to my wife."

"What did she – what did she tell you?" Dean asks anxiously. "I'm sorry if I pissed her off, it was rude of me to say that shit –"

"She said you accused her of being _jealous_," Sam replies, eyeing Dean. "Which – I can't even begin to explain how bizarre that is. But then she said something to me…" He looks away to the window, reaches up and pushes his hand through his hair. "She said you were sober. And she said if you're going to continue acting this erratically, even when you're not drinking, I need to cut ties with you permanently, because if I don't, it's going to destroy my career."

No.

Sam's adam's apple bobs. "And when she said that, I realized…"

No no no.

Dean stares at him, and his heart drops into the pit of his stomach. His head goes dizzy and his mouth is cottony dry and his breath is caught tight in his chest.

Sam looks back to Dean, and his voice goes hoarse. "I realized Ruby has never understood the way I feel about you."

Tears spring to Dean's eyes. "Sam – "

"All she sees is all the hurt you've caused me," Sam goes on, chin trembling. "All she's ever seen you do is push me away and tear me down and do whatever you can to spite me. She doesn't understand how I could still love you after all that. And honestly, I don't either." He shrugs, red-eyed. "But I do. And I don't know what I'm supposed to do here."

Dean stands up, and eyes and nose stinging. "Sam, I'm so sorry I – I've been a dick, I know, but it's not just that. I'm trying to change – I'm getting sober – I'm turning things around –"

"That's great for you, Dean, but why _now_?" Sam asks, the hurt breaking across his face. "Why is _Castiel_, a complete stranger, suddenly able to get through to you when I've been begging you for_ years_ to stop drinking?"

"Because I always thought that – that you didn't really care _why_ I was drinking," Dean stammers. "You just seemed like you were embarrassed by me –"

"Of course I was embarrassed!" Sam shouts. "I was humiliated! My own brother didn't give enough of a shit about me to show up to my major life events without drugging himself into a stupor! Why would you think that meant I didn't _care_?"

"Not _once!_" Dean shouts back, pointing at him accusingly. "Not once after Dad died did you ever even _ask_ me why I left –"

Sam stares agape at him. "I didn't have to _ask_, Dean! I already knew!"

Dean balks.

That's impossible. He can't know. Dean never told anyone except Cas, and no one heard except Dean and Dad.

"Oh yeah?" Dean demands. "Then what was it, Madame Cleo, why did I leave?"

Sam's eyes redden again, and he looks at Dean in disbelief. "You're going to make me actually say it?"

"You're the one who's supposedly psychic!" Dean retorts angrily. "Tell me, why was I so upset, Sammy? Why couldn't I talk to you? Why did I pack my bags and run away from this goddamn place as fast as I could possibly g–"

"Because _I killed Dad!_" Sam shouts.

Dean stares at him in horror.

"There," Sam chokes, and tears start to spill down his face. "There, I admit it. It's _my_ fault Dad's dead and the world was robbed of his genius, and you have _never_ forgiven me for it."

"Sammy," Dean says in a low voice, "it was an embolism –"

"That he never would have had if I just taken the job like you wanted me to," Sam finishes for him. "He would have stopped working and taken it easy –"

"_Dad_ was responsible for Dad," Dean interrupts sharply. "You were just a kid when he shoved that job on you. He was a grown man, and it was his own damn fault he didn't listen to his doctors."

Sam is staring at him, stunned, and Dean's words are starting to sink in.

"I have never blamed you for Dad's death," Dean tells him. "Not ever."

"But –" Sam is struggling. "At the funeral – you wouldn't even look at me –"

Dean takes a deep breath. "Sam, the day Dad died, he said some stuff to me, and… I couldn't talk to you, it was eating me alive, so I ran away… But that was wrong, I should have told you." He clenches his hands and unclenches them. "Shit, Sammy, if I'd known you'd been carrying this around… I didn't know. I should have told you."

"Told me what?"

Dean walks behind his chair. He braces his hands on the back of the chair, flexes them, looks down at the seat of the chair and shakes his head.

It should be easier now, right? He said it out loud to Cas. He can say it out loud now.

Except, his throat is seized tight and there is a sharp jabbing nausea in his stomach, and every inch of his skin is burning hot and his heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his teeth.

"Sam…" He clears his throat. "Can you sit down, please?"

Sam sits down in the chair across from Dean.

He takes a deep breath and starts again. "Sam, there's two things. And so, uh, the first thing I didn't tell you. Is. That, uh. The day Dad died, he told me that if you weren't going to run the company, he wanted Zach to be CEO."

Sam's eyebrows are knotted in confusion. "Zach? But…"

"He didn't want me," Dean admits painfully. He chuckles, and it's so out of place, but he can't help it, it's involuntary. "He didn't want me to run the company. If he couldn't have you, he wanted Zach."

Sam's eyes widen as he processes the implications of Dean's words. "So that's why you didn't –"

"I couldn't," Dean barrels on. "Not knowing he'd rather have Zach. That's the reason I left, but that's not the reason I avoided you. That was – that was the second thing."

Sam watches him intently.

"When Dad… died…"

_Dad, seizing in his arms, face going white. _

"It was right after you left the room, the blood clot hit him, and he just – went down," Dean explains.

_Dragging Dean in tight, struggling for breath. _

"And in his last seconds, he whispered to me…" Dean can feel the tears welling hot in his eyes, shame rolling through him in thick warm waves. "_Tell Sammy I love him_."

Sam puts a hand to his mouth.

Tears again, spilling from Sam's eyes, shock and disbelief burning in his face.

"I'm sorry," Dean rasps. "I should have told you, I didn't –"

"How – could you?" Sam chokes out. "How could you _not_ tell me –"

"Because it broke me!" Dean bursts out, trembling with the adrenaline of his confession. "His last words, his _dying_ words were that he loved you and not me, and it broke me, Sammy, it broke something inside me I didn't even know I had, and it's no excuse I know but I couldn't – I just couldn't say it out loud – I couldn't talk to you at the funeral 'cause I thought I was gonna die, gonna _die_ if I had to say it –"

Sam puts his face in his hands. "You fucking idiot," he sobs into his hands. "Of course Dad loved you. He wanted to tell me because we were _fighting_, you fucking selfish son of a bitch…"

Well, shit.

It had never occurred to Dean to look at it that way.

"The last thing I said to Dad was that he didn't give a shit about me," Sam continues shakily through his tears. "And I've spent the last six years thinking that that's how things ended between us. Do you have any _idea_ what it's like to live with that?"

"No," Dean admits. "No, I'm sorry, Sammy, I didn't –"

"Stop." Sam holds up a hand. "Stop. Just – shut up."

Dean shuts up.

Sam stands up, and he wipes his eyes. "I need to go," he says.

"Can I –" Dean reaches toward him.

Sam recoils and puts up his hand again. "Don't. No." He walks away from Dean to the door.

Dean watches him leave.

The study is silent. The air feels still and dead.

Dean walks over to the cocktail table next to the desk and picks up the glass decanter of scotch. He uncorks it, takes a long swig, and then sits down heavily at the desk.

….

After Sam leaves, Castiel waits for Dean to emerge from the study. He waits half an hour, and then he tries the handle and finds it locked. So, he goes into the servant corridors and opens the secret panel into the study.

As he suspected, Dean ingested a large quantity of alcohol and is currently slumped forward on the desk, tracing the edge of a glass tumbler with his pointer finger.

"How did it go?" Castiel asks.

"You're fired," Dean mutters into the desk.

Castiel blinks.

"Did you hear me?" Dean raises his head from the desk. "I said you're _fired_. You can go now. Get out. Don't make me start throwing shit at you."

Castiel gazes at Dean, and then pulls up a chair to the desk. "I'm not here as your employee. I'm here as your friend."

Dean sits up straighter and scowls at Cas. "Don't you get tired of this bullshit?" he demands. "Look at me. I'm drinking. It's like… one in the afternoon. I'm halfway to fucking hammered. We've been down this road. I'm fucking up. I'm fucking up again. Aren't you sick of watching me make the same goddamn mistakes _over_ and _over _and _over_?"

"How is this the same mistake?" Castiel asks.

"How is this –" Dean pounds his fist on the desk in irritation. "How do you fucking think, Einstein?! You had me all convinced that alcohol was making me a shitbag. Well _guess what_? Turns out, I was a shitbag deep down all along! I just drink to forget! Only you don't want me to forget, I guess, you want me to fucking wallow in my own disgusting filthy mudhole of a life and _grow as a person_ or some bullshit. Well, I choose not to grow! Okay? I choose to forget! Just let me drink and forget!"

Cas leans forward and gives Dean a sharp look. "You think this isn't wallowing?"

"Not in twenty minutes, it won't be," Dean challenges.

"You're not a shitbag," Cas says.

Dean looks at him deprecatingly. "Cas. Castiel. I made my brother blame himself for our dad's death for six years. My name is Dean Winchester, and I am a bag of shit. So, go on your merry way and find someone else to Professor Higgins at." He takes another swig straight from the nearly-empty decanter, then appraises the bottle. "Damn. I'm gonna need more."

Castiel stands up.

"Hey, on your way out, could you tell Louise or Miguel or somebody to bring me in a couple bottles of rum?" Dean requests. "This desk chair is reaaallly comfortable."

"I'm going to the TV room," Cas says. "I'm going to go watch _The Two Towers_. Join me if you want to." And with that, he walks out of the study.

….

Cas goes to the TV room and finds the DVD, and makes a cursory sweep for bugs. He pops a bag of popcorn and fluffs the pillows on the couch. He straightens the coffee table until it is perfectly, exactly parallel with the sofa. He gives the room a more thorough sweep. He puts the DVD into the player, and turns out the lights, and sits on the left side of the sofa with the remote ready in his hand.

No Dean.

He sighs and pushes the play button.

The movie opens with a long panning shot across a range of sharp-peaked mountains, the snowy white ridges crisp against dark rock, serrated blades knifing into the pale blue sky.

"Peter Jackson has a real hard-on for landscapes."

Dean stands in the doorway, shoulders slouched, hands tucked into his pockets.

Castiel ignores him, pointedly giving the appearance of being too engrossed in the movie to notice.

Dean walks over and drops onto the sofa, kicking his feet up on the coffee table. Meanwhile, Gandalf's voice begins to echo through the mountains as the movie transitions into a flashback from the previous film: Gandalf sacrificing himself for his companions. The Balrog's fiery whip drags him to the edge of the stony precipice, and Dean whispers in unison with the wizard, "Fly, you fools!"

Castiel does not look over, but moves the popcorn bowl to sit between them.

Dean takes an overly large handful of popcorn and stuffs it in his mouth.

Gandalf and the Balrog plunge through the black abyss, battling as they freefall.

"You're not making the same mistakes," Castiel says. "You keep making the right choices. And I don't know who Professor Higgins is."

"Dude, no talking, focus on the movie!" Dean scolds. "And he's from _My Fair Lady_."

"Ah. Pygmalion."

"What the hell is Pygmalion?"

"The play _My Fair Lady_ is based on," Cas explains. "The name comes from a Greek myth about a sculptor who makes a statue of a beautiful woman and falls in love with his creation."

"Creepy," Dean mutters.

Cas frowns. "It's the same plot as _My Fair Lady_, essentially. A man falls in love with his own creation."

"But she's not a statue," Dean argues. "He didn't actually _create_ her, he just taught her shit."

"He sculpted her," Cas argues. "He transformed her into a different person, a woman of his own fantasy –"

"Oh my _God_," Dean interrupts, "fine, Professor Higgins is creepy, now can you please shut up so I can hear the hobbits?!"

Cas rolls his eyes and returns his attention to the screen.

….

They burn through all three hours of _Two Towers_ and plunge straight into _Return_ _of the King_ without stopping. Somewhere during the protracted battle to defend Minas Tirith, Dean turns to Cas and remarks, "So, I can't actually fire you, can I?"

"You can try," Cas answers. "But you won't be successful."

"Can you fire me?" Dean asks seriously. "Are you allowed to walk away?"

Cas picks up the remote and pauses the movie.

Dean is attempting to sound unconcerned, but his body language betrays him. He's leaned forward in his seat slightly, and he's watching Cas intently, trying to read his reaction.

"I could," Cas says. "But it would be a professional setback. It's not something I would do lightly."

This is understating the situation greatly.

Dean nods, but he seems troubled by the answer. In the darkness of the TV room, illuminated only by the uneven gray glow of the still frame on the television, it's difficult to read his expression.

"Are you worried about whether I'm choosing to be here?" Cas asks him. "I'm choosing to be here."

"I know that, I just…" Dean moves closer on the couch and rubs the back of his neck.

It's a natural move, but in the dark, there is something intimate about it: something in the way the sofa springs quietly creak, the way he turns his body toward Cas, the way he lowers his voice, the way his face is hidden in shadow.

"I don't want you to be trapped, you know?" he continues. "If you need to get out."

"I'm not trapped," Castiel says. His pulse is oddly quickening and there is a strange tightness in his stomach. "I don't think you realize how long I've wanted this. Working with you."

Dean chuckles quietly. "Is it everything you dreamed it would be?"

"More," Cas admits softly. "So much more."

Dean gazes at him, still so difficult to read in the darkness. He inhales, and moves a hand to the space on the couch between them – not quite touching Cas's leg, but close enough that Cas can sense it. He sighs. "Cas, I like you. A lot."

"And I like you," Cas answers.

"No, I don't think you get it," Dean counters. "You're not my Professor Higgins. He can't even touch you. You're my freaking _Anne Sullivan_, okay? You're the miracle worker, and you're already changing my life."

A warm flush rises in Cas's cheeks, and he is grateful for the darkness.

"But it seems like… there have to be other people you could be working with," Dean continues. "People who have their shit together. Who won't fight you every step of the way. Who can really make a difference in the world. And it seems pretty selfish of me to ask you to spend all of this time just getting me back to basic human functionality when you could be working with one of them."

"But I don't want to work with them," Cas says honestly. "I want to work with you."

"Yeah, I still don't get that."

And perhaps it's the intimacy of the moment – the dark and the proximity and the honesty – but for some reason Castiel replies without censoring himself and tells Dean something that he didn't plan on ever telling him.

"I don't usually… get this close with clients," he says. "I've told you before that you have all the qualities the Trust is looking for, but that's not the only reason I wanted to work with you. There was always something else about you. Something unique. I – I don't know what it is, but you have this quality, a charisma, a magnetism –" He tries to find the right words. "Haven't you ever noticed the way that people are pulled into orbit around you? You attract satellites."

Dean snorts. "That'll happen when you're a billionaire."

"I've met billionaires," Cas counters. "This isn't what they have. It's not the money, Dean, it's you, something about you that is irresistible to everyone around you. Even your staff is pulled in – their lives revolve around you, and it's not just because of their jobs, they're genuinely drawn to you. And _I_, myself–" Cas swallows against the dryness in his throat, and his heartbeat speeds up again, and he stammers, "I – I am – _drawn_ to you…"

Dean takes a deep breath, and reaches his hand further forward, his fingers lightly touching Cas's leg, and Cas is excruciatingly aware of each fingertip's exact placement. "Cas, I –"

A knock at the door.

Both men swivel abruptly, and Dean yanks his hand away.

"Dean, your – your brother is back," Miguel announces timidly. "He wants to speak with you?"

…

"I'm sorry I left like that," Sam says. "I just needed some air."

They're in the study again, standing awkwardly next to the wooden chairs.

"I'm surprised you came back," Dean replies. "I don't know if I would've."

Sam takes a deep, weary breath. "Look, I'm still pissed. I'm not letting you off the hook that easily. But I had some time to think about what you said, and what you told me – Dean. I legitimately…" He looks chagrined. "When you left, if I'd known – if I'd known about that stuff, I think things would have gone a lot differently. I'm sorry I didn't try to talk things out more."

Dean rubs his forehead. "That's on me, Sam. I didn't tell you any of it. And I can't believe that you, all these years, you thought I _blamed_ you –" His voice thickens slightly, just saying it. He clears his throat. "It kills me that I let you go around thinking that."

"Honestly, just finding out that you…" Sam clears his throat as well, and then coughs slightly. "That you _don't_ feel that way. Is. Just." He clears his throat again. "A huge weight lifted." He blinks quickly.

Dean nods, and studies the carpet.

"Why did you come to my house this morning?" Sam asks. "That's what I came back to ask you about."

What Dean came to talk to him about this _morning_ was the Syndicate. But it no longer seems like a good time to broach that particular thorny conversation.

"You never returned my call," Dean says instead. "I left you a message."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "You came to follow up on a phone call at seven in the morning?"

Dean shrugs. "It was the only time I knew for sure you'd be home. And I happened to be sober, so it was as good a time as any."

Sam is about to retort back, and then all of the sudden he blinks, and stares at Dean, and he says, "You're _still_ sober, aren't you?"

Dean makes a waggling iffy gesture with his hand. "I had a few after you left," he says. "But then we started watching Lord of the Rings and I had a chance to burn it off."

Sam sits down in a chair, and looks up at Dean in disbelief.

"You just… had a few?" he asks. "And then you stopped?"

"I'm trying to change," Dean says, as sincerely as he can. "I'm trying to fix things. I want to change."

Sam looks at him for a long moment.

"Why did you come back here?" Dean asks. "Did you really come just to ask me about this morning?"

"… No," Sam says slowly. "I came back because… when you told me what you'd kept from me, all this time, I wanted to walk away and shut you out again, like when we got in the fistfight. Maybe for a lot longer. I was… really angry."

Dean swallows against the lump in his throat.

"And I might still do that," Sam admits. "I haven't decided yet. But after the anger faded a little… I wanted to hear what you had to say. You seem different, Dean. Really different. I wanted to hear you out first."

"I appreciate that," Dean says. "Thank you."

Sam nods in acknowledgement.

"Sam, I know I've fucked up too many times to count," Dean admits, "and I don't really deserve any more chances. I know…" His stomach twists tight. "I know I've hurt you. But please, don't shut me out. Things are changing for me, I'm taking charge of my own life, and for the first time in a _really_ long time I feel like I'm climbing out of the mess I've made instead of just digging myself in deeper. I want to be a part of your life, Sam, if you'll let me. I want a chance to show you things can be different. We can't ever go back to the way things were, I know, but I want to move forward. I want to start making it up to you. I want to figure out how to get back to being a family."

Sam nods and blinks quickly.

"I'm sorry," Dean says earnestly. "I'm sorry for everything. Can we try to work things out?"

"I can't – I can't make you any promises," Sam says. "I still don't know how I feel about everything you told me this afternoon. I'm going to need time, Dean. And I don't know if we _can_ work things out, that's going to depend on a lot of things."

Dean puts his hands up. "Take all the time you need," he says. "I know this is something I'm gonna have to work at. I just want there to be a possibility."

Sam takes a deep breath and nods again. "Okay. Yeah. There's a possibility."

A possibility.

It's a small, tremulous, weak ray of light breaking through a crack in a slammed-shut door that Dean thought was closed forever, a ray of light that he doesn't deserve and can never repay, and for the first time in six years he truly, genuinely understands that Sam loves him.

"Thank you," is what he says out loud.

And then he crumples into tears like a big, dumb baby and chokes out, "Sorry, sorry," and he wipes his face frantically and tries to stop but he can't.

"Dean," Sam says hoarsely.

"Sorry," Dean repeats, wiping his face with shaking hands, "I appreciate it, Sammy, 'preciate it-"

Sam pulls Dean into a tight hug, and Dean squeezes tightly back, and although there is a long road ahead of them both, in this moment they are brothers again.


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: _Fruit Loops, Rice Krispies, Crunch Berries: lend me your ears! Yes, it is that time of the night in which I have begun referring to my readers as types of cereal! It's not even that late, really, it's just that my current bed time is set for Grandma O'Clock and I have breezed straight past that into Reasonable Youth Hours. I am no reasonable youth! I am a wizened grandma who needs her sleep. _

_Thank you everyone who commented last chapter! I'm glad you liked the brother-feels and the hugging and the manful weeping. (Also, manful is an adjective you should try to work into conversation at least once a day.) Your reward for reviewing this chapter is ONE THOUSAND FEET OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS! I watched National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation and got inspired, so MERRY CHRISTMAS YA FILTHY ANIMALS. AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR. AND HAPPY ANY OTHER HOLIDAYS YOU MIGHT BE CELEBRATING._

_P.S. My previous fic, Exonerated, did not win the contest I asked you all to vote in, but it is now (in an unrelated venture) potentially going to be published as a book! I'm going to have to remove it from AO3 and in a month in order to accomodate that. There are more deets in the update I posted to Exonerated, so head over there if you want to know more. Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed that story! _

_Enjoy the chapter! _

* * *

**Six years ago – two weeks after John Winchester's death**

It's either the middle of the night or the middle of the day – one a.m. or one p.m., and Dean doesn't know or care which one it is. It is the middle of one long, endless stretch of nothingness and he is comfortably numb in his king-sized hotel bed, two prostitutes giggling in his bathroom and one snuggled up to his side, stroking his chest.

Dean's phone buzzes. Or, it was buzzing for awhile and now it's not. Or was it buzzing? Maybe it was just glowing. Now it's buzzing. No, that was earlier.

"Who's Jo?" the prostitute asks.

Dean frowns at her. "How do you know her name?"

"She's calling you."

The phone stopped buzzing. Now it's buzzing. Now it stopped. Now it's growling. The phone will not stop growling.

"She's my… chick," Dean tells her, letting himself sink back into the bed. The phone starts barking, but he ignores it.

"What's she like?"

"She's nice," he mumbles, "and she's pretty." A Tom Petty song begins playing in his head, and so he sings along, though the words start to jumble together. "_She's a goooood girl, loves her mama… loves hooorses, and her boyfriend too…_" He laughs because the song is so amazing, so good and so perfect, and he sings a little louder, "_And I'm a baaaaad boy, 'cause I don't even miss her… I'm a baaaad boy for breakin' her heart…" _

"You're a bad boy," the prostitute coos. "I like bad boys." And Dean realizes that he doesn't know her name, and he doesn't care, and this is her job and she does a damn fine job of it, doesn't she, and he's going to fuck her again and ignore Jo's call because he is warm and empty and this is the closest he has ever come to feeling like he could be dead, like maybe he's dead already and this is just what comes after dying, purgatory, an eternity in a locked hotel room with infinite cash and nothing to left to buy except people, just you and your money and interchangeable hungry-handed women and everyone you ever cared about on the other side of buzzing cell phone a million miles away.

It's either one a.m. or one p.m., and it doesn't matter which one it is, because there is nowhere else he will ever be.

…..

Being empty turns out to be a freeing experience. He has nothing to lose. Everything is meaningless, which means anything is possible. He can't feel shame anymore. There is no morality. He just does whatever he feels like. He smiles more, laughs more, and experiences highs he has never felt before. There are a few times that the old fear of judgment comes back to him: the first time he tries speed. The first time he fucks a dude. The first time he is robbed. But each time, he is reminded afterward that there are no consequences for Dean Winchester, and Dad was only person whose approval he couldn't buy, and Dad is dead, and so –

_don't think about Sam don't think about Sam don't think about Sam_

Sam would be appalled by the new Dean. Sam would be horrified. If Sam were here, he would charge into the club or the hotel suite or the shitty bar bathroom and physically shake him, shouting, _What are you doing, Dean? Why are you doing this? What's wrong with you?_ and Dean would tell him frantically, _I don't know, I don't know, help me, Sammy, I don't know._

But the weeks pass, and Sam doesn't show up. Why would he? Sam is doing just fine without him; he doesn't need him, not like this. Maybe he misses the old Dean, but he doesn't care about the new one, the hollow man who laughs in the dark.

There is no one coming for him. The company's stock prices climb upward, and the rest of the world spins without him.

And so, Dean embraces the freedom of being completely unmoored. He grins, he fucks, he imbibes. He wakes up in strange cities with new friends. He buys whatever will get him the most attention. And when he's drunk, he leaves Sam messages. He won't talk to him – only messages, taunting messages, jabbing at him again and again and again.

Sam doesn't show up.

…..

**Now**

Jo gets a strange text from Dean one afternoon.

Normally, she's the one calling him, but a few times he's called her up himself. This time, he texted, and he wrote: _You free tonight? I just want to talk. _

Jo frowns at her phone in bemusement and types back. _Is "talk" a new euphemism for hand stuff?_

_I'm serious_, he replies.

_Are you okay?_ she asks.

_I'm fine. You free?_

She decides she has nothing to lose.

….

They meet at an old bar Dean used to frequent, a shitty redneck dive bar that has since been remodeled into a decent Irish pub. When he walks in, she almost doesn't recognize him. He's grown a beard and he's wearing _flannel_, for God's sakes, a plaid green flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, loose and unbuttoned over a black tee and torn up jeans. Flannel in the _summer_. And the beard!

He walks up to her booth and gives her a smile. "Hey! You actually came!"

"You look like a homeless lumberjack," Jo comments.

"Well, _you_ look like a… confident, independent woman," Dean replies archly.

Jo narrows her eyes. "What do you want?"

Dean sits down across from her and picks up a menu. "Let's order first, huh? Then the shop talk."

There's something different about him already. Maybe it's the beard – it makes him look more serious, masks his boyish features. It's not attractive, in Jo's opinion, but then maybe that's a good thing.

"So you're engaged," Dean remarks, without looking up from the menu.

Jo twists the diamond ring on her finger. "Mark took me back."

Dean nods. "Congratulations."

Jo waits.

He squints at the menu. "I thiiiink I'm gonna get a cheeseburger," he muses.

"That's it?" she asks incredulously.

Dean glances up. "What?"

"No 'Mark, the ketchup guy' bullshit?" Jo prompts. "No bitter jokes about my fast turnaround? Not even some sort of gross Eskimo brothers thing?"

A slight shadow crosses Dean's face. He sets down the menu and he asks, "Jo, why do you stick around me?"

Jo blinks. "I don't. We just hook up sometimes. Which, by the way, is over, because I'm engaged."

"I treat you like shit," Dean continues. "I'm a complete asshole to you, but you still come around. For a long time I thought you came a-knockin' whenever you wanted to feel better about yourself, but I'm starting to think it's the exact opposite."

"Why did you ask me to meet you here?" Jo demands. "Do you have actual shit to talk about, or not?"

"Yeah, I have actual shit," Dean snaps, "but can you just let me apologize for one fucking minute?"

Jo rolls her eyes and laughs sarcastically. "Oh, _apologizing_! My mistake, I thought you were trying to convince me that I'm not pity-fucking you, you're pity-fucking me. It's so weird how many apologies start out like that!"

"Just – _listen_!" Dean barks. "I spent a week in the goddamn woods doing nothing but thinking and then I had a whole dramatic _thing_ with Sam yesterday and I _realized_ that I'm pretty damn _stupid_ and I've probably been being stupid about you too. I'm sorry for the way I shut you out when I ran away when Dad died, that was shitty of me, but I always thought you looked down on me after that and that's why I was such a dick, and I'm pretty sure you _do_ look down on me, pretty sure you only call me up when you want an excuse to beat yourself up afterward for stooping so low, but I'm turning a new fucking leaf or some bullshit like that and I'm gonna try and stop being such a dick _anyway_!"

Jo stares at him.

He takes a deep breath and places his hands flat on the table. "Also, there's some weird crap going on at the Foundation, and I know you have connections there. So. That's what I wanted to talk about."

"Are you shitting me right now?" Jo counters savagely. "You think rehashing the crap you did six years ago is somehow going to fix things between us? News flash, Dean: I don't look down on you because of what happened when your dad died. I got over that a long time ago. I look down on you because of the way you choose _every day_ to do whatever takes you the least amount of effort to get you what you want. People think you pull all this crap because you're stupid. I know you're not stupid. You're just _lazy_. There is nothing you will do for yourself if your money can buy it." She clenches her hands into fists under the table and leans forward, lip curled up, teeth snapping the edges of her words. "You want people to _respect you_, Dean? Then act with some goddamn self-respect. You're not a man just because you can grow a beard. You're a child with a credit card. So grow. Up."

"Really? So then what are you doing, slumming it with me?" Dean demands. "Why did you turn down Mark, and then fuck me, and then go back and commit to Mark? You're the adult here, maybe you can explain it, because from where I'm sitting it doesn't make any fucking sense."

"Because you're good at sex!" Jo exclaims. "Why are you trying to make this more complicated then it seems? I fuck you because you're good at fucking! That's all it is!"

Dean chuckles bitterly. "So this, _this_ is what I was expecting."

"Oh come on," Jo interjects. "Like your reasons are any different."

"Of course they're different."

Jo raises her eyebrows. "Oh yeah? Then tell me, Dean, why do you keep coming back for more, if I'm such a superficial bitch?"

"Because I miss you!" Dean blurts out, open and honest. "I miss you like crazy."

Jo's words stutter in her mouth, unsaid.

"I know we were never serious, but we used to be friends, Jo. And I miss it. I take whatever I can get with you," he admits. "And then I shove you away, because I know you'll leave and I just want to be the one who walks away first."

"You – you can't be serious," Jo says, feeling her throat tighten as her mind races through all the memories of Dean hurting her, over and over and over. "You can't expect me to believe that _you're_ the one with a broken heart here. After everything… all the chances I gave you…"

"No," Dean says, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. "Not a broken heart, just… broken." He shrugs at her, nonchalant, but there is something dark and deep in his eyes. "I've been not right for a long time. I pushed you away because I'm not right. But I'm trying to get right, now. I guess that's what I wanted to tell you."

The strange thing is, Jo actually believes him.

"Are you in therapy?" she asks.

"Not exactly." Dean scratches his beard and fiddles with the edge of the menu. "But there's this guy I hired… Castiel Smith… Goes by Cas, Castiel is a weird name. Anyway, he's like… my life coach, I guess. And he's been helping me sort through my shit."

"That sounds like a therapist," Jo comments.

Dean rolls his eyes and flares his nostrils. "Trust me, he's _not_ my shrink."

"What do you do together?" she inquires. "Do you, perhaps, sit and talk? Does he ask you about your family history?"

"Shut up."

"Hey, I'm all for it. Just make sure he has an actual degree before you start taking any pills he gives you, alright?"

"He's not my shrink, Harvelle! He's my – assistant!"

"Riiiight." She winks at him mockingly and taps her nose. "_Assistant_. It'll be our little secret."

"The _secret_ is that you're delusional," Dean mutters under his breath.

Jo looks at the menu. "I think I'll get a cheeseburger, too."

….

**Later that night**

Dean and Cas are sitting on some spare chairs in the music room next to the stereo system, and Dean has Led Zeppelin's "Ramble On" playing as he relays the story to Cas.

"So then Jo told me that it's open secret that Zach Rutger has been dictating the Foundation's expenditures," he explains. "Since most of their money comes from the company, he feels like he should have a say in where they spend it, even though he's not on their board. And the Foundation is massive, it has enough capital to survive without any more contribution from the company, but everybody on the board is connected with the company and nobody wants to get on Rutger's bad side." Then he cocks his head toward the stereo, stops, puts a hand in the air, and says, "Okay, here it comes, listen, listen to the words –"

"_T'was in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair_," Robert Plant croons over the speakers. "_But Gollum, and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her…_"

Castiel's eyes widen. "Did he just –"

Dean jumps up, pauses the music, and fists pumps the air. "Yes! Yes he did! And _that_, my friend, is living proof that Lord of the Rings _isn't nerdy_!"

Cas frowns. "How does that follow?"

Dean stares at him in consternation. "This is Led Zeppelin. One of the most important rock bands of all time. They practically gave birth to heavy metal. They are THE singular definition of cool, and they, THEY liked Lord of the Rings. Therefore, ipso facto ergo propter hoc, Lord of the Rings is cool!"

Cas tilts his head and narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "Or, perhaps the fact that the members of Led Zeppelin liked Lord of the Rings means that they were secretly nerds."

"You take that back," Dean growls, making a fist at him.

Cas looks at his fist skeptically. "Is that supposed to intimidate me?"

"Well, sure, easy for the guy with the gun to say," Dean retorts, "but if it was a _fair _fight, mano a mano –"

Castiel stands up, his jaw set slightly forward. "You actually think you could take me."

"The thing is, I'm taller," Dean points out, "and definitely stronger."

Cas meets his gaze coolly.

Dean isn't exactly sure what happens next.

In the time that it takes him to blink, the world flips over and his face is pressed painfully into the carpet and his arm is twisted behind his back and Cas's knee is digging into his spine and he's yelping "OW OW OW UNCLE UNCLE YOU BASTARD!"

Castiel releases his arm, but doesn't let him up.

Dean drags his arm forward pathetically and groans into the floor. "I wasn't ready, you trigger-happy lunatic! Christ, you're the worst. If you'd given me a goddamn second –"

Cas presses his knee into Dean's back a little harder. "I would still win."

"Ow ow Jesus _stop that!_" Dean shouts.

"Admit that I would win."

"_Never_, you cheating sack of shit!" Dean snarls back.

And so Cas bends down close, and puts his hands on either side of Dean's shoulders, and says right in Dean's ear in a low, dark, skin-prickling voice, "If you don't, I will _tie you up and leave you here_."

Dean swallows.

Everything in his body reacts all at once, flushing hot and tensing up and all his blood racing to the least convenient place, and he forgets how to breathe for a second and he _cannot have a hard on right now_. He struggles to shove it all down and act normal and be chill and not beg Cas to please, please elaborate on exactly how that would go down.

Cas can tell, somehow, he can tell something is up. He pulls away and lifts his knee off and says, "Did I – Dean, I thought you were joking, did I actually hurt you?"

"No," Dean croaks, "I'm – I'm cool, nothing can hurt me, I just bounce back, my friends call me Wolverine, for obvious reasons –"

"I'm sorry," Cas says worriedly, putting a hand to Dean's back, the spot where his knee was. "I shouldn't have been so rough –"

A strangled laugh bursts out of Dean, and he sits up and clambers off the floor quickly. "No, no, it's fine, I guess we shoulda had – a safe word –" He laughs again, a strained laugh that sounds completely off, and he wishes he could maybe die right here.

Cas is looking at him strangely, and Dean remembers how easily Cas can read him.

Fuck.

"Sorry," Cas says again, but Dean can see in his face that he knows exactly what he's apologizing for now. "I didn't think."

"Psh, you're, you're fiiiiine," Dean assures him, his face hot. "No harm, no foul, man. What were we talking about anyway? Before all the Zeppelin shit started. I was telling you something…"

"You told me Rutger has been controlling the Foundation's grants," Cas replies. Dean isn't sure if he's been successfully distracted, or if he's just playing along.

"Right. Well, presumably Rutger directed the Foundation to stop funding all the elementary and high schools they were supporting, right after Dad died," Dean goes on. "Which is… the most moronic thing he could have done. Putting our software in schools is product placement and good publicity all rolled into one. I have no idea why he would want to cut that."

"Maybe he didn't," Cas suggests. "Perhaps it was a casualty of funding some other project. Maybe you should talk to him about it directly. He might not know that those schools were important to your family."

"Yeah," Dean says hesitantly, "or maybe I could… have Sam talk to him… Sam's better at that stuff…"

"You could both go. You and Sam together."

Dean squints at him. "I thought you were Captain Paranoid. Aren't you worried about all that Syndicate crap?"

Cas shrugs. "This has nothing to do with the Trust. This is something personal to you. I don't see why you can't involve him, as long as you're otherwise discreet."

"Okay," Dean says, nodding. "Yeah, maybe it'll be an old-fashioned Winchester gang-up. We'll corner the weaselly bastard and make him talk. We used to be really good at that."

Cas raises his eyebrows. "You used to gang up on Rutger?"

"No, not him," Dean explains. "But we spent some time in Acquisitions together, and if anybody tried to pull anything – back out of a deal, wriggle on the price – Sam and I would go in for the kill." He grins. "I think Rutger could stand to bleed a little."

Cas smiles slightly. "I've never liked him. You have my blessing."

"Now, back to the important discussion…" Dean turns back to the stereo. "I have the entire Led Zeppelin discography at my disposal, and we will listen to _as much as it takes_ for you to see that they are the human incarnation of badass."

"I don't have time for that, Dean."

"Oh, excuse me. Of course. You have plans. You have to wash your hair tonight, that will take at least two hours –"

"I have other things to do."

"- and the sock-darning, yeesh. Three hours, _minimum_. Then you have to spend at least half an hour reading poetry to your plants –"

"I don't have any plants."

"Then there you go! Half an hour, freed right up!"

"Dean…"

…


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: _Jesus H. Christ. This chapter, you guys. This chapter FOUGHT ME. I'm so sorry for how long it took, but trust me, it is much better for it. Please believe me when I tell you I've put many hours into this chapter and I never forgot about you guys, my readers, sadly waiting for a chapter that never arrived. Also please believe me when I say that I appreciated all of your wonderful reviews, and even if I haven't gotten a chance to reply I absolutely read your review and was grateful for it. _

_I recently got a birdfeeder and it's becoming VERY POPULAR among the local birds. I'm basically the weird lady from Mary Poppins, is what I'm saying. Your reward for reviewing this chapter is that you will get YOUR CHOICE OF EXTREMELY COMMON BIRD. Want a spotted towhee? DONE. Want a dark-eyed junco? WHOOP, THERE IT IS. Want a chickadee? I DON'T KNOW BUT YOU'RE GETTING ONE! If you leave a particularly long and glowing review, you will get an awesome looking, bright-red-headed HOUSE FINCH! I ONLY SAW IT ONE TIME BUT IT'LL PROBABLY COME BACK AND THEN I'LL GIVE IT TO YOU! All for the low low price of one review. Act now before these birds fly away!*_

_*All birds have already flown away. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

That night, Castiel has a strange dream.

He doesn't remember the lead-up to the dream – the context for why and how the events in the dream came to pass, if there _was_ any sensible context. All he remembers is that in his dream, it is night. It's somewhere safe, somewhere private; a bedside lamp shines soft yellow through a pleated paper shade and the room is cocooned in velvety thick darkness. Dean is lying on his back in bed and Castiel is sitting up next to him, and both of them are naked, and neither one is particularly bothered by it.

"So, what's next?" Dean asks.

"I don't know," Castiel answers. He strokes his fingers affectionately through Dean's hair. "We could have sex. We're already naked."

Dean looks up at him dubiously. "Do you actually want that?"

"Not really," he admits. "But I know you do."

Dean sighs, and he reaches up to take Cas's hand and presses it to his cheek. "You idiot," he mutters. "You know I don't want it to be like _that_."

"But I want you to be happy," Cas says earnestly, and he slides his other hand to the opposite cheek to frame Dean's face. "I love you so much."

Dean sits up.

Cas gazes at him with an ache of longing in his throat. He is… _beautiful_, really, that's the only word for it, with his golden skin and languid muscles and sharp jawline and mussed brown hair and those round, knowing green eyes.

"Cas," Dean says, "if I want sex and you don't, that doesn't mean you lie back and think of England. That just means I need to work a little harder and make you _want_ it."

"But you can't," Cas says unhappily. "I'm straight."

Dean smirks, and his eyes gleam deviously. "We'll see about that." He moves closer and kisses Cas, slipping a warm hand up his bare back and pressing skin to skin.

Castiel kisses back, and it feels good, so good – it feels _right_, even, deeply satisfying, like a missing puzzle piece that he has been searching for a long, long time finally clicking into place. But he's not turned on. There's no sexual urge.

Dean puts a hand along Castiel's neck, the kiss growing more urgent, more hungry, more, _more_, and then he pauses and breathlessly asks, "Is this doin' anything for ya?"

"I don't think so," Cas admits, "but don't stop."

Dean looks him in the eyes and raises his eyebrows.

"Can't we just keep kissing?" Cas asks. "Why does there have to be more?"

"It's… kinda the way I'm wired," Dean says hesitantly. "I'm always going to want… more."

And then Castiel wakes up.

…..

The dream perturbs Castiel.

It's not the kissing that bothers him. Well… alright, it bothers him a little. Every time he remembers it, his stomach clenches uncomfortably and his face grows hot. However, he also knows that the kissing doesn't mean anything. He's had much stranger dreams, more erotic dreams about men before. It's simply his subconscious exploring hypothetical situations, and it's perfectly normal. He also knows what caused this particular dream scenario to spring up: the Zeppelin Incident of yesterday put Dean's persisting attraction to him at the forefront of his mind. That all makes sense.

What truly bothers him is the lingering memory of their strange dialogue:

_I want you to be happy. I love you so much. _

_I'm always going to want… more._

It plays over and over again in his head, like a track skipping.

As he brushes his teeth, he remembers what they said to each other during the cabin trip, out in the woods, by the lake, after they'd kissed.

_I can't… be that, to you._

_I know. _

_I'm sorry._

_Don't be._

Real life. That really happened. But this – this dream, it never happened. It isn't real. Dean never said that.

And yet… Castiel remembers the exact way he said it, and how precisely accurate it was, resignation set in the steadiness of his eyes, and uncertainty twisting in the lightness of his voice. _I'm always going to want… more._

He rinses his toothbrush for thirty seconds too long before he remembers what he's doing and turns off the faucet.

…..

Castiel calls Lisa.

"How did it go with the school board?"

"It went great, actually, way fewer ruffled egos than I thought!" she replies. "I did sort of imply that Dean personally complimented the superintendent. But everyone's really just so grateful for his donation, really, the board was thrilled."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Anything other questions for me?" she asks.

There is an awkward silence.

"I did… have…. an inquiry about… an unrelated matter," Cas hedges.

"You want to know if I'm going to call Dean," she guesses.

"Yes."

"Did he put you up to this?"

"No," Castiel assures her, "he would be embarrassed if he knew. He thinks he's very charming."

Lisa laughs. "Well, he is, actually. I was going to call him tonight."

"Oh. Good. Then I suppose – I don't have anything else."

"What if I thought he wasn't charming?" Lisa asks. "What were you going to tell me?"

Castiel pauses.

"C'mon, you were clearly ready to bail him out. What is your pitch on Dean?"

"I was going to tell you…" He takes a deep breath. "Dean has been going through a particularly difficult period in his life. But he's working very hard, every day, to improve himself and improve the lives of others. He needs people around him – real people, who don't care about who he is and how much money he has. People who care about things that are truly worthwhile. People who aren't afraid to tell him when he's making a mistake. I don't know you very well, Ms. Braeden, but you seem like a very grounded woman. I was very impressed by you during your presentation, and you seem like exactly the kind of person Dean could use in his life, even if only as a friend."

Of course, this is partially a lie. Castiel has already done extensive research on Lisa, and he _knows_ she's the kind of person Dean could use in his life.

_I'm always going to want… more._

_I can't… be that, to you. _

She can be more.

Lisa hesitates. "You think he'd want to be _friends_ with me, if I turned him down?"

"I think he'd much prefer to date you," Castiel answers honestly. "And if he felt you were only after his money or notoriety, he wouldn't. But if you were genuinely interested in friendship, yes. Absolutely."

"Huh." She laughs to herself. "Wow, this is a weird conversation."

"I apologize if I've overstepped. I should go now. Have a good day, Ms. Braeden." And he hangs up before he can say anything that will change her mind.

….

….

**That same morning, at the Winchester estate**

Dean doesn't sleep very well when he doesn't take the Johnny Walker Express to unconsciousness, so he feels like shit when he wakes up. Fragmented memories of random dreams scatter through his groggy mind: he dreamed about… performing a surgery, he thinks. Then something about Jo, and she had five babies and she kept them in glass ketchup bottles. At some point Cas handcuffed him to a bedpost and then didn't come back, and then Miguel showed up with a key, but he wouldn't unlock him unless he begged, and he vaguely recalls that it got sexy after that but he can't remember what actually happened.

Dean groans into his pillow. Even in his _dreams_ he's got blue balls.

After breakfast, he calls Sam.

"Hey Sam! So. Funny story. I was down at Ridge Hill Elementary the other day because – uh – well, I was down there, and their computers are for shit. Turns out, the Foundation stopped all the grants to the public school tech programs, and rumor has it, Zach Rutger is the one who's been calling the shots at the Foundation these days. So I was thinking –"

"Hang on, slow down," Sam interrupts. "Start from the beginning. What's all this about?"

"Thee _chil-dren_," Dean says slowly, overly enunciating each syllable to get it through Sam's thick skull. "Theeee _chil-dren_ have _com-put-ers _that are _for shit_."

Sam huffs, and he can practically hear the eyeroll. "Yeah, I get that. But how did you get involved?"

"Someone from the school was asking for donations," he lies.

"From _you?_"

"Yes, from me, Dean Winchester, the coke-snorting pussy hound. NO, of course not from me!" Dean scoffs. "They had a – a – a booth thingy, at the grocery store, trying to raise money."

"You were at the _grocery store_?"

"Cas and I go shopping sometimes and – look, Sam, the point is, the Foundation should be putting Winchester software in those schools. It's supposed to be part of our legacy. And it _was_ part of our legacy, right up until Dad died. Then, apparently _somebody_ directed the Foundation to stop shelling out to the underprivileged youths."

"And you think it's Zach."

"Actually, Jo thinks it's Zach. I haven't been around enough to know who's pulling the strings these days."

Sam considers this. "That's… weird."

"Damn straight, it's weird."

"Why would he cut the funding to the schools, when it's basically product placement –"

"That's what _I_ said!" Dean exclaims. "I literally said that to Cas!"

"Maybe I should go in tomorrow and ask him about it…"

Dean's heart sinks. "Well, actually I was, uh. Thinking. I thought _we_ could go ask him about it."

There is a pause.

"You and I? Together?"

Dean swallows and chuckles. "Nah, you're right, that's… You go talk to him, let me know what you find out."

"Dean." Sam exhales in frustration. "You can come with, but this isn't going to be… You realize we're going to have to go up to his office."

Dean rubs his forehead. "Yeah, I know."

"Have you been up there, since…?"

"No."

"If I bring you with me, are you gonna freak out and start breaking shit?"

"Prob – probably not?"

"_Dean_."

"I'll be on my best behavior, Sam. Scout's honor."

"You were never a boy scout," Sam retorts.

"Then on my honor as a coke-snorting pussy hound," Dean amends. "Best behavior."

"I'm gonna regret this, aren't I," Sam mutters.

"Almost certainly."

…..

Dean continues readying himself for the day, which mostly consists of making Tina choose which shirt he should put on and arguing with Kelly about whether or not hats will ever be acceptable indoor menswear. Then, 10 minutes before Cas is supposed to arrive, Louise brings him a visitor: Jerry, his point-man for all things covert and chief investigator into who the hell Castiel Smith is.

"Hey, Dean!" Jerry greets him. "I got some follow-up from last time we talked." He gestures to the folder under his arm. "You got a minute?"

"Sure, sure," Dean says, thinking quickly. "Follow me." He leads Jerry to the master bedroom, blasts Metallica on his stereo, shuts them in the bathroom, and starts checking the shelves and cabinets for bugs.

"Do you actually know what you're doing?" Jerry asks skeptically.

"I dunno, I've watched Cas do this a million times, though," he admits. "What've you got?"

Jerry laughs in surprise. "You're calling him Cas, now?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, get it out of your system. He and I are buddies now."

"Buddies?" Jerry is incredulous. "I thought you hated him!"

"I did, but… he grew on me. I couldn't stay mad." Dean shrugs sheepishly. "He's Casper the friendly spook, I guess."

"But he's _spying_ on you," Jerry says, wide-eyed. "He's – he's a _spy_. A SPY. I'm trying to think of more explicit ways to say that and I got nothing."

"What have you got for me?" Dean asks, pointedly moving on.

Jerry sighs and flips open the folder and hands it over. "Check these out."

The documents are bad Xeroxes, grainy copies of copies, written in what looks like French. There is a small black and white photo of Castiel – he's _blonde_, and young, very young, maybe even in his teens, staring into the camera with a bored expression. He looks completely different but it is also unmistakably him.

"These are French visa documents," Jerry says. "They're fake. And I don't mean someone photoshopped this yesterday – they're contemporaneous forgeries. From the _eighties_. Whatever he's involved in, he's been involved for a very, very long time."

"What do they say?" Dean asks, still staring at that strange photo.

"They say he's a Soviet citizen. Dmitri Kravchenko. We think his real identity might be Soviet too."

Dean shakes his head and says without thinking, "No, he told me –"

_Jimmy. Jimmy was my name but – I'm Castiel, I'm Castiel now, call me Cas. _

He remembers Cas, sucking in shuddering breaths, the sweat already beading on his forehead because even though they are deep in the mountains and hidden in the woods he is terrified of being discovered.

_I was – interrogated. But it won't happen to you. You're not in any danger_.

_They found her body two weeks later, in a city dump_.

_I trust you. There's no one I trust more._

Jerry is waiting for him to finish his sentence.

"He told me he's American," Dean finally says.

Jerry frowns. "And you believe him?"

"He was drunk when he said it." Dean hands back the folder. "I'm more interested in this group he works for than his personal history, though. They must have made these visa documents."

"So far all I've gotten on them are rumors," Jerry replies. "Conspiracy theories. But what I hear scares the shit out of me. If the stories are true, these guys make the CIA look like the boy scouts."

"Well, I'm no boy scout myself," Dean remarks, thinking of his conversation with Sam. "I'm not one to worry about how the sausage gets made. But I am worried about what the hell kind of sausage these guys are making. You dig?"

"Yeah. Yeah."

"I gotta go. Cas is gonna be here any minute." Dean holds open the bathroom door, and says over the music, "Keep me in the loop."

Jerry nods, and they leave the room.

….

Cas seems off today.

Dean doesn't know what it is, but he's acting weird. More distant than he has been since they left for the cabin trip, more closed-off, more unreadable. It could be because of the whole… hard-on thing from yesterday, but at the time Cas hadn't seemed that bothered. Now, he's staying at least a foot and a half from Dean at all times and speaking in short sentences.

It doesn't help that they're shopping for suits.

Cas tricked him into it, really. He took him to a department store, and started meandering through the furniture and bath towels and cheap china before leading him towards their true destination. This section is a small alcove off of the labyrinth of the main floor, tables set with a technicolor spread of silk ties and stacks of pastel-colored button-up shirts folded into stiff rectangles. A faceless mannequin in a powder blue sport coat holds a golf club in his molded polymer hand. Behind him, a flock of dark suits hang on the wall, black and navy and coffee brown despite the summer season – formal wear stuck in perpetual winter.

Dean immediately stops in his tracks. "I'm not wearing this shit."

"You need a suit for your meeting with Rutger," Castiel says. "You will be walking through the company headquarters."

"No, you don't understand," Dean says firmly. "I have a tailor. This is a goddamn department store. I am not wearing this _shit_."

Castiel glares at him. "I'm not going to ask your tailor to work overtime to make you a suit by hand when you're going to destroy it."

"How do you know I'm going to destroy it?" Dean demands.

"Because you hate suits," Cas says flatly. His shoulders are tense and squared, and his khaki trenchcoat only exaggerates the effect. "You're going to get angry and take it out on the suit."

"_Or_, maybe I'll just take it off and put it in my closet, like a goddamn adult!" Dean suggests brightly. "Maybe you could give me some fucking credit, _Cassandra_, considering all the mature-ass shit I've been doing lately!"

"Don't start," Cas mutters. He reaches out to grab Dean by the arm, and then freezes mid-reach. He pulls his hand back and blinks. "Come – come over here," he growls, turning to the fitting room entrance.

It's Dean's turn to stare. "What is going on?"

But Cas is already disappearing into the dressing room.

"Hey!" Dean strides after him. "I asked you a question! What was that about?"

Like magic, the large stall Cas is inside already has three nice suits hanging inside – he called ahead, he planned this, it's an ambush. "Try these on," he orders, and then he walks past Dean to go back out of the fitting room.

"Where are you going?" Dean demands.

"I'll wait out here," Castiel says. "Pick one that you like."

Enough.

Dean grabs him by the elbow, drags him inside the stall, and locks the door behind them.

"You do realize you're locking it from the inside," Cas remarks dryly.

"Shut up," Dean hisses, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You tell me what the hell is going on with you _right_ _now_, Mr. Transparency!"

Castiel's expression is blank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"_Last_ time we went clothes shopping, you literally shoved your hands down my pants," Dean whispers angrily, aware that anyone could be listening. "And now you're going to wait outside? Is this about yesterday? Are you seriously that bothered?"

Castiel's face blanches slightly, and his adam's apple bobs. "I'm not – bothered."

"Then what the fuck is going on?" Dean pleads. "You've been weird all morning!"

"I don't want to talk about it here," Castiel says quietly.

"Then where _do _you wanna talk about it?"

Cas gives him a dark look. "This won't get you out of suit shopping."

Dean grabs the nearest suit and shoves it at him. "Here. Buy this one. Shopping done."

Cas rolls his eyes, but he takes the suit.

….

Apparently, sitting in the car parked along an empty stretch of flat road in the middle of nowhere is as good a place as any.

Cas takes deep breath. His fingers fidget in his lap. "I'm not bothered by what happened yesterday. I am… worried," he says slowly. "I don't think I've been… respectful… of your personal boundaries, and the things that you are feeling. And I thought it might be easier on you if I stop… physically engaging you. If I give you some space."

Dean sighs loudly in exasperation. "Jesus Christ, you are blowing this shit so far out of proportion," he groans, dragging his hands down his cheeks. "You were the one who decided I'm only allowed to fuck one person a month. Well, guess what comes with the abstinence territory? A hair trigger dick. _Hair trigger_, Cas. If so much as a light breeze blows by me I'm at half-mast. That is all that happened, and it's not a big deal!"

"Don't you want more space, then?" Cas asks, his brows knotted tight in confusion.

"If I need space, _I_ will take some space," Dean insists. "_I _will tell you if I'm having a problem. I'm a grown man. Why do you think you get to decide my boundaries for me?"

Cas's confusion turns sharper, turning to irritation. "I wasn't deciding for you. I decided that _I_ should take a step back. I don't understand why you have an issue with that."

"Because you made this unilateral decision supposedly for my benefit, without asking me if I even wanted you to!" Dean snaps.

"Do you want me to?"

"No! That is the entire point!"

"But why _not_?" Cas demands. He won't let go of it, doggedly pressing on. "If you're constantly on edge, and I constantly invade your space, what happened yesterday is going to keep happening!"

"Yeah, I know! And I'm saying I'm okay with that!" Dean exclaims.

"I understand that," Cas growls. "What I don't understand is why you wouldn't _prefer_ for me to simply distance myself!"

"Because I don't want to you to start distancing!"

"But isn't it frustrating for you?"

"Of course it's _frustrating_!" Dean rants, and the rest comes tumbling out of him without a second thought. "Damn it, Cas, it's been _frustrating _since the day I met you, you amnesiac lunatic, do you not remember how many times I tried to get in your pants?! But what you and I have, the friendship we have, it goes beyond friendship, it's more than that, I don't know what it is but I _know_ you feel it because I was there at the cabin, I was _there_, and every time you try to tell me you goddamn care about me you get this look on your face like a goddamn Nicholas Sparks movie and I feel it too, okay, I admit it, I feel it and it's fucking weird, alright, I don't know what it is but it is _not normal_. And whether it's healthy or not healthy I don't have a fucking clue, but goddamn it, for the first time in years I wake up in the morning and I actually _want to be alive_ and it's because of this weird goddamn thing we have and I don't want it to ever stop, so don't you dare, don't you _fucking_ DARE try to give me 'space' without talking to me first, you son of a bitch!"

Cas is staring at him wide-eyed, his hands gripped tight on his knees.

Dean is slightly out of breath, and he gulps in some air.

There is a frisson in the air, the two of them sitting with their eyes locked, and there is a look on Castiel's face that is difficult to read – his lips are pressed in a tight line, his nostrils are flared, and his breathing is loud in the closed car, just as loud as Dean's, even though he hasn't said a word – and then, Dean sees his gaze lower to Dean's mouth and then quickly dart back up to his eyes, and he realizes:

_He wants to kiss me._

"I knew it," Dean breathes, "you bastard –"

And he grabs Cas by the shoulders and presses his mouth to Cas's and kisses him hard, forcefully, as though he's trying to leave a mark, trying to leave an imprint in his mind that he can't ever erase, and Cas inhales sharply and bends into the kiss, letting Dean in closer, kissing him back and making a small groan in the back of his throat –

Dean wrenches himself away, pushes Cas to arm's length and holds him there, panting.

Cas stares at him, confused and breathless, his chest heaving up and down.

"This isn't all in my head," Dean growls, "and fuck you for convincing me it was."

"It's not in your head," Cas whispers, "but it's not – I'm not –"

"Don't _lie_ to me!" Dean snarls, and his eyes sting as he clenches his hands tighter on Cas's shoulders. "You kissed me back!"

Cas swallows, and his eyes are wide and terrified, and he says, "I'm attracted to you, Dean. But it's different than normal attraction. It's – it's not sexual. I don't want to have sex with you. I'm never going to want you the way you want me."

"Then what _is_ this?" Dean begs. His chest feels like someone has reached inside him with enormous hands and grabbed his ribs in each fist, pulling them tightly together, squeezing and squeezing them until the bones snap. "What do we do?"

Cas's mouth twists inward. "I don't know. I tried to give you more space –"

"You know I don't want that," Dean says. "I don't want to put up walls, Cas, for once in my life."

"Then I think –" Cas sighs wearily. "I think we just have to endure it. Eventually, it has to – it has to fade."

Dean is still holding Cas by the shoulders, still has him in his grasp.

_Endure it._

Cas is watching him, waiting for his answer.

He takes a deep breath. "Okay then. I can do that. I'll just – deal."

Cas nods.

Dean adds, "But I just need one for the road…" And he put his hands to Cas's face and kisses him very, very softly.

He knows that he has to remember it. He has to memorize the sensation of Cas's lips pressing on his, the sound of Cas breathing against his skin, the warmth of his cheek beneath his fingertips and the raw, crystal-sharp pain in his throat because he knows he has to remember this. He kisses him softly, softly, and it hurts so sharply, and it feels so good, and Cas leans into his touch and draws in a ragged breath, and Dean closes his eyes and commits it to memory.

Then he releases Cas, and sinks back into his seat.

He turns his face toward the window.

The silence in the car throbs like an ache.

After a minute that feels like forever, Cas turns the key in the ignition and begins the long, quiet drive home.

…


	28. Chapter 28

A/N: _Oh, my wonderful woodpeckers! This chapter is late, I know, and last chapter I tortured you all so horribly by having our boys kiss and STILL not understand that it is ~true love~. I am a cruel and capricious author. Therefore, your reward for reviewing this chapter is ONE MILLION U.S. DOLLARS!* YES, REALLY, ONE MILLION BONAFIDE U.S. DOLLARS IN UNMARKED BILLS, YOURS FOR THE TAKING!* _

_*"U.S." stands for the Ungulate Separatists, a small independent republic declared by the author in 2010 for tax evasion purposes. An Ungulate dollar (or "hoofie") is worth 0.0000002 United States dollars._

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**7:17 am, the following morning**

Miguel has just stepped out of the shower when he hears a knock at his bedroom door – probably Louise, with some new task for him. "One moment!" he calls. He yanks on his clothes hurriedly and shoves back his wet hair. He swings the door open –

It's Dean.

His hair is flat on one side and he's in fleece pajama bottoms and an old t-shirt, and he has a sheepish look on his frustratingly handsome face.

"Sorry," Dean says, "I know it's early, it's just that I couldn't sleep and I wanted to – I just wondered if I could – talk with you. For a second. Alone."

"S-sure," Miguel stammers, opening the door wider, "come in."

Dean eyes Miguel's bedroom and says, "Actually, I think this conversation might be less awkward in your office."

So they relocate to Miguel's office.

Miguel pulls out a chair for Dean, and pulls his own rolling desk chair over and sits, and he clears his throat, and they both sit silently.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters. "It's still awkward."

"What is it?" Miguel asks.

Dean takes a deep breath and puts his hands on his knees. "Okay, so this is a personal question, and you should feel free not to answer it if you don't want to, and I want to be clear here – I am in _no way_ trying to solicit any kind of… anything."

"Noted," Miguel says warily. "What's the question?"

"How did you know you were gay?"

Miguel blinks.

"Not – not how did you know you liked dudes," Dean clarifies hastily, "but when you realized you liked dudes, how did you know you weren't bi? How did you know for sure you _didn't _like chicks?"

Miguel isn't sure if he should have this discussion with Dean. It doesn't seem like an appropriate topic for the workplace, but at the same time –

There is something in Dean's eyes, in his voice, something that Miguel recognizes innately as a mirror image of his own past self, a self asking tentative embarrassed questions of the only person he can bring himself to ask aloud.

So he answers.

"There was awhile that I thought I _was_ attracted to girls, when I was young," he admits. "I liked girls, I had lots of friends who were girls."

"Did you ever –" Dean cuts himself off, then starts again. "Did you ever actually hook up with chicks?"

"Yes." Many, many times.

"And – did you like it, on some level, or was it all just…" Dean makes a face of disgust and pantomimes pushing a plate away.

Miguel blushes. "I… enjoyed it, somewhat, in the moment," he admits. "I wasn't repulsed by the girls I was with. But I never had a desire to initiate anything, and afterward, I didn't really have a desire to do it again. Whereas, with men…" He blushes harder. "I wanted to, all the time. When I was with an attractive guy, hooking up was always on my mind."

Dean pales slightly, and he says, "So that's how you knew?"

"Why do you want to know all this?" Miguel asks.

Dean drags his hands down his face. "Say – say that tomorrow, you meet _one woman _you're really into," he hypothesizes. "It's not just 'she comes over and then we fool around.' You're attracted, you're thinking about her, thinking about hooking up with her, just actively, you know, _wanting _her. You'd still be gay, right? Minus her, you've only wanted dudes for your entire life. She'd just be the exception to the rule. Kinsey scale. All that jazz."

Ahhh.

Miguel's mind instantly cuts away to opening the door of the pitch-dark TV room, Dean whirling around like a thief caught red-handed, Castiel sitting next to him.

"I… don't know," Miguel says slowly. "I think it would depend on the situation."

"What do you mean?"

"A one-night stand with a woman probably wouldn't be enough to make me rethink my entire identity," Miguel explains. "Even a casual crush, I could brush off. But if it was more than that… if I was really _in love_ with a woman… then I don't know if calling myself gay would feel true anymore. I might start to look for another label."

"But it's just one!" Dean protests. "One woman you're attracted to out of a bajillion men! No, ba_trillion_!"

Miguel snorts. "It's not really about ratios. _But_, on other hand, there's no Orientation Police who are going to hunt you down and force you to choose a side. It's personal. If I still felt I was gay, I'd call myself gay. If you truly feel you are a straight man, then you should call yourself straight."

Dean mulls this over for a moment.

"But I also say: if you're attracted to Castiel, and it's a serious attraction, you're probably not straight," Miguel brazenly concludes.

"Hey!" Dean points at Miguel angrily. "That is _not_ what I said!"

"No, of course not," Miguel agrees.

"_I_ am straight," Dean rants, "and Cas is straight, and two straights don't make a gay, Miguel! It's basic math!"

"A few weeks ago, you were offended that I thought you two _weren't_ having sex," Miguel points out. "What changed?"

Dean turns bright red and barks, "Nothing! I'm just – trying to be more honest!"

"Or…" Miguel pushes his heel against the floor and rolls his chair back slightly, regarding Dean critically. "Maybe now, there's more at stake."

Dean grabs Miguel's chair by the arms and yanks him in tight, uncomfortably close. "_Don't_ psychoanalyze me, kid," he says sharply.

"I'm not a kid," Miguel shoots back.

Dean's nostrils flare, and he tightens both hands on the arms of the chair, and he growls, "You think I haven't noticed?"

Miguel's breath catches in his throat.

The space between them almost seems to crackle, and the taut lines of Dean's shoulders raise the hairs on the back of Miguel's neck, and for a second Miguel can _feel_ it, can feel the way Dean is barely holding himself back from something more, like a hungry dog straining at his leash, that Dean _wants_ to – oh, he wants to –

but then Miguel thinks helplessly, _It's not me that he wants._

He's in too deep. He's let boundaries slide. This is supposed to be the job. The job he was hired for, anyway – he was hired to be a piece of furniture, a tool, the help. A neutral object. And now here he is, a human placeholder for the real object of Dean's desire, living furniture, and it actually _hurts_.

He's in too deep.

Dean's eyes dart along Miguel's face, and then he pushes the chair away.

"Miguel," he sighs heavily. "I think you deserve a raise."

Miguel frowns. "Why?"

"Because you're a good guy," Dean says, standing up, not meeting his eyes. "And I'm a dick."

He walks out of Miguel's office without another word.

….

**9:27 am **

Sam stands outside the Winchester Tower, wondering if it's too late to abort this entire mission.

A black Cadillac rolls up to the curb, and the chauffeur hastily steps out to open the door for his passenger. Dean climbs out: sunglasses, dark navy suit, bold red tie, close-trimmed beard and self-assured grinning white teeth, and for a moment Sam feels like he's been socked in the stomach because it's _Dean_, the Dean of his memories, young and vibrant.

But then Dean steps closer. There are more lines to his grin than there used to be, crow's feet peeking from behind his shades; and his grin isn't self-assured, Sam knows that now – it's a thin white veneer of bravado over the deep well of his insecurity. And he knows now that that's how it always was. His memories are unreliable fiction, his own perceptions colored by the lens of childhood admiration he viewed Dean through.

How much of Dean has he always been blind to?

"Yo Sammy! You ready to rumble?" Dean asks, stepping out of the bright morning sun into the shadow of the building and slipping off his sunglasses.

"What are you wearing?" Sam asks. "That's not one of Andre's."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I threw out all my suits. This is all I had left."

"You should take it back to whoever made it. It's not right in the shoulders."

"_You're_ not right in the shoulders," Dean retorts, and then he walks past Sam towards the revolving doors. "Enough chit-chat, let's get this party started."

….

Through the lobby. Up the express elevator to the next bank of elevators. Up the elevator to the top floor. They get surprisingly few looks; they are not recognized by most. Dean doesn't recognize any of the faces they encounter, but it's not that surprising. They're just walking through general wide hallways, not the rabbit warren of his old department. They've redecorated the building since Dad died – again, not surprising, but it is disorienting. It's still your standard high-rise office building, but everything is brighter now. The 90s-reminescent tan walls, maroon carpeting, and soft overhead lighting have been replaced by white walls, cerulean carpet, and enough fluorescent ceiling panels to kill a horse.

Dean doesn't like it. It's too bright. He wants to put his sunglasses back on.

The closer they get to Rutger's office, the itchier Dean gets. There is a fabric label in the back of his shirt collar – _department store piece of shit _– and it chafes against his neck. His tie is too tight, constricted around his throat. The shoulders in his suit jacket are fucking _wrong_ and the sleeves bind at his elbows. He twists his arms to try and break it in.

Sam keeps looking at him. He's noticed the fidgeting, Dean knows, but now that he can feel the itch of that label he can't _not _feel it, and he quickly scratches the back of his neck and silently curses Cas.

"Are you alright?" Sam asks, an implication under his words.

"I'm not tweaking, Sam, I just have an itch," Dean snaps.

"All over your body?"

"No, it's this fucking –" Dean grasps at his collar desperately. "This suit, it's all fucking wrong –" The tie has gotten tighter, somehow, with his arm twisted around, and it squeezes on his windpipe, and it's very warm now and Dean can feel the beads of sweat gathering at his temples.

The elevator doors open. Sam steps forward.

"Changed my mind," Dean says, a little out of breath, and he smacks the lowest button on the elevator console. "Going down."

"Dean –" Sam sticks his arm out and makes the elevator doors ding and reopen. "Are you serious?"

"I shouldn't have come here," Dean says, gulping in a deep breath and backing up. "I can't do this."

Sam grabs him by the arm and pulls him out of the elevator. He steers Dean over to the side of the hallway, next to a potted decorative tree of some kind.

"Do you actually want to leave?" he asks in a low, serious voice, looking Dean in the eye. "Or are you just scared?"

"I'm not _scared_," Dean snaps, flushing hot. He loosens his tie a little and paces. "I'm not –" He shakes his head, and tries to keep it together even as his insides feel like loose pieces jumbling together – like he's trying to hold an overflowing armful of marbles, and the tighter he squeezes the more marbles tumble over the edge.

Sam just watches him.

Dean stops, facing the potted tree, staring at that damn tree. He whispers, "I'll just never be able to un-see it. You know? When I see him in there."

"It's just an office."

"It's _Dad's_ office," Dean insists.

"Not anymore." Sam tucks his hands in his pockets. "Not for a long time, Dean."

Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and nods quickly, too quickly.

"Look…" Sam sighs, and rocks back on his heels. "I'm not gonna make you go in there. I don't even really know why I'm trying to stop you from leaving, except… earlier, you really wanted to come here and do this. And this is something you should be able to do."

It is. It's something he should be able to do. It's something that a normal, sane, not-fucked-up person would have no problems doing. It's something that Dean could do one _thousand_ percent more easily if he was drunk, or maybe if he'd popped a few Xanax.

Sam is still watching him, and he has that look – that infuriating look of bored disappointment that always used to enrage Dean, the look of someone who always knew you would manage to fuck things up. But he can see now, it's not boredom there, no – it's – it's attempted _nonchalance, _missing its mark. He's pretending not to care. He's disappointed and trying to hide it, trying to look as though Dean isn't letting him down. Again.

But he is.

"It's fine," Dean says, loosening his tie some more. "Let's go." He walks quickly towards Zach's receptionist before Sam can reply.

….

"Good to see you, boys! Take a seat, take a seat!"

Zachariah Rutger grins a wide, narrow crescent of a smile. His gray hair is a fringe around his receding hairline, and his bright eyes sit in dark sockets, but he is not an unattractive man – just unremarkable. He looks natural in a suit. He looks as though he was born to make deals.

They're inside Dad's office.

It doesn't look anything like it did when John Winchester sat here. It was more a of a suite than a corner office, with adjoining rooms – one for all his personal projects, one for conferences, even one with a bed in it for when he pulled crazy hours. Zach has knocked down all the walls between the rooms and turned it into one enormous, cavernous, ridiculously expansive office. The outer walls are actually floor-to-ceiling windows, tinted slightly against the morning sun, and the berber carpet is a mottled light beige, but the ceiling is blindingly white; and several yards away, right up close to the window, is his desk.

His desk.

It's the stupidest thing, that Dean even notices the damn desk. It's not like Dad had won it in a legendary archery tournament or carved it from living oak with his own hands or any shit like that. It's just chrome metal legs, curved at the feet, and – Dean doesn't even know if it's actual glass, but panes of thick black glass or maybe just shiny molded plastic, one at desk level and one just below for a narrow drawer, and it is absolutely without a doubt the same exact desk Dad sat at every day for as long as this tower has existed.

_That desk is mine._

The thought strikes Dean as clearly as if he'd said it out loud – he hears the words in his own voice.

And then Sam looks at him, bewildered, and Zach's grin shrinks, and Dean realizes that he _did_ say it out loud.

"This desk?" Zach asks, bemused.

"That desk," Dean says, walking closer. "That was my dad's desk, he died, it should've gone to me and Sam. We should have that desk. It belongs to us."

Sam is following right behind him. "Dean –"

"Actually, the desk belonged to the company, not your father," Zach explains, patting his hand on it. "But if it has sentimental value, I'm happy to give it to you."

"Everything –" Dean takes a deep breath, and he grits his teeth. "Everything this company _has_ was our father's. Every beam of this goddamn building is here because he put it there."

Sam puts a hand on his shoulder. "Relax, Dean, he said he'd give it to you."

"It's okay," Zach says. "It's my fault, really – after all the incredible work that has been done on this desk, I should have retired it long ago. Donated it to the Smithsonian." He smiles wistfully and gazes at the desk. "John was a genius."

Dean knows he's only saying it to placate him, but it works. At least Zach is aware of how woefully he falls short.

"Sit down, sit down!" Zach urges them. There are two rolling arm chairs to the side of his desk, and he pulls them over. "What is it you wanted to talk about? Julie said it was something about the Foundation."

They take their seats. "We just found out recently that the Foundation discontinued its public school outreach," Sam explains. "And we were told that you might have something to do with it?"

Zach frowns in puzzlement. "I've given the Foundation advice on their programs, but I don't remember… public school outreach…"

"They cut it six years ago," Dean says tersely. "Right after Dad died."

"Ah! Yes!" Zach snaps his fingers. "Yes, I remember now. The local computer lab grants." He chuckles. "Let me tell you, 'public school outreach' is a strong term for what they were doing. The Foundation was overhauling the books and trying to maximize effectiveness, reevaluate, cut out the pork, so to speak, and they asked me to review some of their programs. One of the many cuts I recommended was the lab grants. They were giving funding with barely any oversight to a couple of random local school districts, with absolutely no plan for development or expansion." He shrugs. "I don't know how it even got approved. It was like they were funneling money into a storm drain! It wasn't _much_ money, granted, but a storm drain is a storm drain. So I recommended they cut it."

Dean clenches his hands on the arms of his chair. "They weren't random school districts. They were the schools Sam and I went to."

Zach raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Huh! Well, I guess that explains a lot. At the time I thought some disinterested office grunt had just thrown some runestones on a map of California!" He laughs heartily.

"Look…" Sam scoots forward in his seat. "The way I hear it, the Foundation is still marching to your beat. These school grants – they're kind of important to me and Dean. Do you think you could put a word in and make something happen?"

Zach leans back slowly in his chair, and clasps his hands. He looks at Sam, and then to Dean.

"This isn't about the school grants, is it?" he muses.

Sam frowns. "Yes, it is."

"Oh, come off it, Sam." Zach smirks. "If these schools are so important to you, why didn't you notice that they'd lost funding for _six years_? And my god, you're both billionaires. You could probably match the Foundation's grants just by scooping out the change from under your couch cushions! So tell me – what is this really about?"

Both brothers stare back at him.

Zach takes a breath and clears his throat. "I'll take a shot at it. How's this: I'm guessing John is the one who told the Foundation to give that money. You two found out that I'd told the Foundation to stop giving the money. And the idea of me doing that – doing even one _tiny_ thing that could possibly go against your father's wishes – galls the two of you so much that you decided to take it up with me personally, so I would understand that I'd made a terrible, terrible mistake by making any kind of judgment call without first asking myself 'What Would John Winchester Do.' Is that about right?"

Dean and Sam swallow in unison.

"I thought so." Zach smooths his tie and stands up from his chair.

He walks to the window, touching it lightly with a small zigzag gesture, and the light tint of the entire glass wall changes to the opaque image of dusty rose wallpaper with gold fleur-de-lis. It looks real – it looks like a solid wall. The overhead light brightens to compensate for the sudden lack of sunshine. Zach grins back at them. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Dean and Sam blink and stare at the wall.

Zach walks back and sits on the edge of the desk, smiling at the brothers. "Well, here's the thing. Do you know how I got this job?"

"Yeah," Dean growls. "Your boss died."

Zach shakes his head. "No, no, we all know that everyone thought it was going to be you, Dean. I saw it happening in front of my own eyes. When you went to business school, it was a done deal. So what happened?"

Dean feels his heart thudding heavily in his own chest, beating against his collarbone. His knuckles are white on the chair, and his throat squeezes tight. "I – went on a bender."

Zach looks at him appraisingly. He looks at Sam. "Boys. I've been perfectly straightforward with you. Everyone in this room knows that it happened a long, long time before that."

"Dad chose me," Sam says, his voice strained. "But I didn't want the job. So you got it."

Zach points at him and grins. "Ding ding ding! Give the man a cigar! But based on your inability to follow where I'm going with this relatively simply line of questioning, I'm guessing Daddy Dearest didn't ever explain why he made that choice."

Sam shakes his head tightly.

Dean can feel his chest constricting, and nausea rises in his stomach.

Zach sighs. "Of course not." He leans back into the desk and crosses his arms. "John was not the kind of man who spent a lot of time considering his own mortality. He worked on the operating assumption that he would live forever. When John had his first arrhythmia – you remember – you were out in Cambodia, Sam, and Dean was working here. When that happened, John had a conversation with me. He realized he was going to have to retire, and a lot sooner than he had anticipated. I said to him, 'John, you don't need to retire, you just need a new heart. You're the fifth richest man in the world. Can't you just go to Thailand and buy one?'" He chuckles. "But it wasn't about his health. He'd changed. He'd just been smacked in the face with reality, and the reality was that one day he wouldn't be able to work. Dean was going to have to take the reins, the sooner the better – which, to me, didn't seem to be a problem." He looks at Dean and shrugs. "You were hard-working, successful, beloved by your coworkers, plus you've got the face of a GQ cover model. Sounds like a CEO to me!" He laughs. "But John said to me – he said, 'Zach, I screwed it up. I taught him that he has to be just like me. He wants to be like me. But he's not me. The second I step down, the entire world is going to be watching him, criticizing him, comparing him to me every single step of the way, and no matter what he does or what choice he makes or how well he does, they're going to say it's not what I would have done. And it'll kill him, I see that now, it'll kill him to live in my shadow."

Dean is frozen solid. He can't move or think – Zach's words just echo inside of his skull, ricochet after ricochet, even though he desperately wants to catch hold of them.

_it'll kill him, I see that now, it'll kill him to live in my shadow_

Sam leans forward. "But how – "

Zach hold up a hand. "Don't worry, I'll get there. So I asked him, 'Well, if not Dean, then who?' 'Sam,' he said. I was baffled. I told him, 'John, Sam isn't gonna be able to be you either!' And John said – now, this is really what he said – 'No. But Sam doesn't _want_ to be. If they tell him he's not the man I ever was, he'll take it as a compliment.'"

Sam's eyes redden, and the corner of his mouth twists in a pained smile.

"Now, I admit, I expressed… some doubt," Zach goes on. "I questioned whether you were capable. And John said, 'He can do it. And no matter what, he'll have Dean – Dean will stick with him.'"

The blood drains out of Dean's face. Out of his head. Out of his body, it feels like, pooling in the carpet.

"And that was that. He'd made up his mind. And then Sam refused to take the job and Dean bugged out, and_ I_ was the one left holding the bag." Zach sighs ruefully. "So you see, you two came up here all riled up because you think I'm not honoring your father's wishes. But he didn't want his successor to be a clone. He didn't want to be the ghost haunting these halls. I may not be your father, boys, but I'm good at running this company, and that's all I've ever aspired to be. I think that's exactly what John wanted."

Dean's entire body is numb. Empty. Without consciously thinking of doing it, he stands up – dizzy, lightheaded, the room spins – and he starts walking out of the office.

"Dean." Sam stands up. "Where are you going?"

"Air," Dean mumbles. "Get some air." He walks out of the office and through the reception area, feeling as though he is floating somewhere slightly above his head and watching himself walk to elevators and Sam following after him, saying things Dean doesn't hear, and Sam gets in the elevator with him and grabs his arm but Dean shrugs him off.

They walk out of the elevators and through the lobby, Sam still talking emphatically and Dean still floating above it all, and it's not until they emerge out onto the sidewalk that suddenly Dean slams back into himself with a forceful blow, and he staggers and grabs the side of the building for support.

" – whatever you're doing," Sam is saying, "Dean, listen to me –"

"Shut up," Dean breathes, squeezing his eyes shut. "Shut up for a second."

He looks up the side of the tall, shining tower, glass panes rising dozens of stories from ground, reaching up into the crystal blue sky, the bright sunlight glinting off its metallic face. And that very top floor, so tiny, barely visible from here, a gleaming speck, so far and away above them.

Everything he ever wanted, and from here, it looks so insignificant.

He unknots his tie and pulls it off.

"I'm okay," he says.

Sam's eyebrows are twisted upward in concern. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Dean says, and he's telling the truth. "I just needed some air."

Sam looks unconvinced.

Dean squints up at the top of the tower. He turns and walks toward the street,

out from under the shadow of the building, and into the morning sun.


	29. Chapter 29

A/N: _I'M SORRY_

_I'M SORRY THIS IS LATE_

_I'M SORRY DEAN AND CAS IS 2 DUMB 2 KISS_

_YOU'RE ALL BEAUTIFUL, WONDERFUL, INTELLIGENT AND CAPABLE HUMAN BEINGS_

_ONE DAY I SHALL REPAY YOU, BUT FOR NOW, PLEASE ACCEPT THIS CHAPTER AS A TOKEN OF MY GRATITUDE._

* * *

**11:02 a.m., the Winchester Estate**

"Where is he?" Castiel asks.

"Out back, in the pool," Louise tells him.

So Castiel makes his way past the topiary garden and down to the outdoor swimming pool. The hot sun is beating down and the light bounces brightly off the clear rippling water, and a faint acidic scent of chlorine hangs in the stagnant air.

Dean is drifting peacefully in the center of the pool on an inflatable neon green pool float: sunglasses over his eyes, a half-empty beer in his hand, and still wearing his now-waterlogged navy department store suit.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asks.

"Kickin' back," Dean replies lazily. He sounds half asleep – or drunk, Cas isn't sure. "Water's great, Cas, jump in."

"Were all of your swim trunks destroyed in some sort of laundry disaster?"

Dean grins. "Well, you _said_ I was gonna ruin the suit. So really, I'm just living up to expectations."

"What happened at the office?"

Dean shakes his head slowly. "Nuh uh. My lips are sealed until you get in the water."

Cas squints at him and frowns.

Dean lifts his sunglasses and looks at him. "I'm serious, Cassafrass. Get in the pool."

After a moment of internal debate, Cas walks away from the pool.

"Chicken!" Dean calls after him.

Castiel walks back inside the house, finds Tina, and procures a pair of swim trunks. He walks the back way around to the poolhouse, changes out of his clothes and neatly folds them, and grabs a towel. He walks back over to the pool.

Dean hears him and glances over. "Heyyyy, look, everybody, it's an albino! Jesus man, when was the last time those legs saw sunlight? You were one of those 'indoor recess' kids, weren't you?"

Castiel tosses his towel to a nearby deck chair, and then backs up. He gauges the distance and gauges the depth of the pool.

Dean frowns. "What are you…"

Castiel takes a running start.

Dean's jaw drops. "SON OF A B–"

He takes a flying leap into the pool, grabbing his legs into a cannonball formation, and the rest of Dean's expletive gets drowned out by the gigantic splash.

Cas hits the bottom of the pool, which he expected, though a little harder than he had hoped. He pushes up and bursts up at the surface, where Dean is sputtering and yelling an incoherent stream of insults, ending in "-motherfucker DOUCHE!"

He can't help but feel triumphant as he swims to Dean's side, towards the shallower end where the water is only up to his collarbone. He grabs ahold of the float and props himself up on it. "I'm in the pool. Talk. What happened at the office?"

"You got pool water in my beer, dickhead!" Dean accuses.

Cas leans in closer and says pointedly in a low voice, "And _you_ got me to take off my clothes. So I consider us even."

Dean turns red. "I wasn't – I, uh, I'm not trying for – that's not why I –"

So Cas reaches under the float and flips it over.

Dean makes an ungodly yelping noise and splashes into the water, his beer officially a lost cause. He surfaces sputtering and gasping, and he shouts, "What was that for, you PASTY FREAK?!"

"For lying," Castiel answers.

Dean wipes his eyes and blows air out of his mouth, trying to get the water off his face, his wet sleeves flopping unhelpfully. He shoves back his hair from his forehead and glares at Cas. "I wasn't lying."

They're both standing here, in the water, chest-deep, and although they are out in the bright wide open, the pool is tucked behind the garden and they are completely alone. And for a second, Cas considers the odds of them being seen and briefly contemplates putting his hands to Dean's chest and kissing him into admitting that it was exactly what he was hoping would happen.

But he doesn't.

Dean is looking at him, and his cheeks and forehead are pink, but it's just a light sunburn. And he says, "I wasn't trying to get you naked, Cas. I was just messing with you."

Cas blinks.

He's telling the truth.

"You were pretty clear with me yesterday," Dean says, looking him straight in the eyes. "You don't have to worry about me pulling shit. Okay? I'm not gonna do that."

Cas nods.

Then Dean's eyes stray downward, across Castiel's shoulders and chest. He has a strange look on his face, unreadable, and then he snaps his eyes back up quickly.

Cas is confused. It's only his shoulders and collarbone – what is there to ogle? Then he remembers:

Dean has never seen his scars.

"Occupational hazard," he says. "The small ones on my right shoulder are from surgery." He doesn't explain the crooked line running down from his left collarbone almost to his right armpit, or the discolored mottled patch on his sternum.

Dean nods nonchalantly and pointedly doesn't look.

"I'm not embarrassed," Castiel says. "I don't mind if you look at them."

"No, it's not, uh." Dean scratches his head. "It's probably better if I don't. Because then I'll start thinking about how you got 'em and I'll get all. Uh." He reddens.

And Cas reddens too, because he understands what Dean is trying to say.

Dean takes a deep breath and takes on a lighter air. "Lisa called me, you know. Said you threw me under the bus, told her I wasn't charming."

"That's not exactly how I put it."

"Did you mean what you said?" Dean asks.

Castiel considers this. "You can be very charming, but sometimes your attempts at flirtation come off as boorish or lewd rather than endearing –"

"No, I mean, when you told her I could use someone like her in my life," Dean interrupts. "Do you really think she'd be good for me?"

"Of course," Cas says. "That's why I wanted you to meet her."

"Why? What's special about her?"

"I don't think I should tell you," Cas hedges. "I think it would be better if you got to know her on your own."

Dean snorts in exasperation. "Oh, so _you _get to google her and I don't?"

"What happened at the office today?" Castiel asks, for the third time.

Dean looks down into the water, and exhales. "You're reaaally not gonna drop that, are you."

"No."

"Then… I guess I'll start at the beginning," he sighs. "It all started with this suit, which happens to be the worst fucking suit of all time, which makes sense because _you_ picked it out and you're like if Mussolini had been born into the body of a guy who works at the Dunder Mifflin Paper Company –"

"Dean."

"This is relevant, I swear. Anyway, so I show up in the fucking suit…."

…..

…..

**3:22 p.m., the West Coast headquarters of the Trust, 10 stories underground**

"Where is he?" Castiel demands.

"In the lounge," the secretary informs him.

Castiel storms into the employee lounge, spine rigid with anger, fists clenched with repressed violence. He finds him there, pouring a mug of coffee from the communal pot.

"Castiel!" Zachariah greets him. "Fancy meeting you here! I just popped by to chit-chat with Raphael, and thought I'd grab a cup of joe –"

"Dean told me what you said to him," Castiel cuts in tersely. "About your conversation with John."

Zach raises an eyebrow. "And?" He takes a loud sip of his coffee.

Castiel steps closer, positioning himself between Zachariah and the doorway. "_And_," he continues, "I've followed Dean for ten years. I've been monitoring his file. Up until John died, everyone believed he wanted Dean to take over the company. I never heard a word about this conversation. Up until a few weeks ago, I didn't know Sam had even been considered for the CEO position."

"So?" Zach prompts again, completely unperturbed. "You're going to have to spell this out for me, I am just _not_ picking up what you're getting at."

Castiel's right arm is tense, ready, ready to grab sidearm holstered under his left arm. "Either you _didn't_ report the information when you learned it, and kept it a secret all these years," he says sharply, "_or_, the conversation never happened."

"Why would I keep it a secret?" Zach asks.

"I don't know," Castiel retorts. "Information is currency. Perhaps you were selling to a higher bidder." His adrenaline is pumping, body tense, and he is acutely aware of every minute motion the other man makes.

Zach rolls his eyes. "Oh come on, I'm not a double agent, Castiel. Just because you married a Syndicate goon doesn't mean _everyone_'s a Syndicate goon."

Fury bubbles up in Cas, boiling over, and he struggles to keep it lidded. "So you made it all up, then? You _lied_ to Dean and Sam about their dead father?"

Zach sips his coffee casually. "You're forgetting the third option."

"Which is what?" he growls.

"Maybe I reported it nine years ago," Zach suggests, "but that information was never released to you."

Cas frowns. "Why would the Trust keep it from me?"

Zach shrugs innocently. "I don't know. Information is currency. Right?" He smirks. "Perhaps it was above your paygrade."

Castiel steps close enough to feel the heat emanating from Zach's coffee. "_Did_ you report it?" he demands. "Were you lying then or are you lying now?"

Zach puts a hand to his cheek in mock surprise. "Oh my _word_," he remarks. "You're getting awfully worked up, agent. Say I did make it up. So what? What would be so bad about that? You're the one trying to reform Mr. Daddy Didn't Love Me, you should be thanking me for throwing you a bone!"

"It's wrong," Cas insists. "It's manipulative. It's _cruel_."

Zachariah rolls his eyes again and sets his mug down on the nearby countertop. "Cruel, my ass. The kid is probably happier than he has been in years."

"You don't have any right!" Castiel shouts. "What good is his happiness if it's built on a lie –"

Suddenly Zach's eyes narrow and sharpen, and his mouth flattens into a thin line. "I'd heard rumors," he says, "heard you'd gone native on this one. But to see it in the flesh..." He tilts his head disbelievingly. "You've completely lost your grip on reality, haven't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What am I – of _course_ his happiness is built on lies!" Zach exclaims. "You lie to him every day! You've manipulated him since the day you met him. I saw your presentation, for crying out loud, you have a five-year plan to mold him into a model citizen against his will! It is your_ job_. It has been for a decade. But somehow, you've summoned a heroically large quantity of cognitive dissonance and convinced yourself that you're doing all of this for 'his own good.'" He sneers. "This organization is not spending millions of dollars on this man for _his own good_, Castiel. You are there to make him into the man the Trust needs him to be, by whatever means necessary. You work for the _Trust_, not Dean. Got that?" He leans in closer and pushes his index finger into Castiel's chest. "If you're interested in coaching him to unleash his inner goddess or whatever self-help crap Oprah is peddling these days, go freelance. We're not in the feel-good business, bucko. We're in the business of getting shit done. If you can't get it done, we'll replace you with someone who will."

Castiel stands there, shellshocked, unable to make a comeback.

Unable, because there is no comeback. Zachariah is right.

Zach holds his eyes for a moment, then steps back. He pours the rest of his coffee into the sink and drops his mug in with a clatter. "Get your head straight, Castiel. Do your job. The Chairman is watching." He walks around Castiel and leaves the lounge.

….

**5:14 p.m., the Winchester Estate**

"I can't stay long," Sam says as soon as he walks in the door. He's still in his suit from work. "I just wanted to make sure you were –"

"Not blacked out in a pool of my own vomit?" Dean suggests. "I told you Sam, I'm fine." He's changed back into his normal tee shirt and jeans, and he holds his arms out and displays himself as proof. "See? Still in one piece."

Sam exhales heavily and nods. "Yeah, good. Okay." He pushes his hand through his hair. "Good."

"How are _you_ doing?" Dean asks slowly, watching him closely.

"Fine!" Sam blurts quickly. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You hungry?" Dean asks. "I can throw something on the grill. Jeff makes a killer T-bone."

"No, that's okay." Sam glances toward the door. "Like I said, I can't stay long…"

Dean knows that Cas is going to kill him for this, but he can't see any way around it.

"I actually wanted to talk to you about something," he says. "C'mon. Let's take a walk." He heads towards the back patio.

Sam follows him hesitantly.

It's such a bright sunny day, stepping outdoors is like stepping under a heat lamp, and the whole beautiful green expanse of Dean's estate is sprawled in front of them. Dean leads them down the pea-gravel path into the topiary garden, where at least the likelihood of being overheard is lower. There's no point in trying to be totally secure; if someone wants to hear this, they'll hear it.

"I been thinking about what Zach said," he begins. "About how Dad was counting on me to be there for you."

"Yeah, I don't think that was… fair," Sam answers, taking off his suit jacket. "I can't believe that he decided he didn't want you to lead the company, and then he just expected you to still do all the work anyway…"

"No, he was right." Dean rubs his mouth and kicks at the gravel path. "If you'd taken the job, I would have been right there. I'm your brother, I'm supposed to look out for you. And the fact that when Dad died, when you needed me the most – I was too wrapped up in my own shit –" Dean blinks quickly. "I shouldn't have run away. I shoulda been there."

Sam squints at the sun. "Well. You weren't."

It stings, but Dean knows it's deserved. "I'm sorry."

Sam shrugs. "We've had this conversation. I know you're sorry. It is what it is."

"I can't do anything to change the past, but… I'm here now," Dean says. "So, even though – even though it's really stupid, I can't just turn a blind eye anymore. I have to say something."

Sam looks down at him quizzically. "What are you talking about?"

Dean takes a deep breath. "Sam, I know about the Morettis."

Sam frowns at him blankly. "Who?"

It's chilling, to see him lie so easily and naturally. He looks perfectly at ease, the exact right amount of mildly confused but unconcerned.

"I heard you," Dean says. "You and Lily Palmer."

Sam squints at Dean. "Dean, who are you talking about? I don't know what you're –"

"Don't fuck around with me," Dean hisses, stepping closer. "You and Lily Palmer, funneling money to the Morettis. I've seen the pictures, I've heard recordings of the conversations, I've got logs of the money transfers. And if I can get them, other people can too."

Sam freezes and turns pale white, and his mask drops completely.

"What are you doing?" Dean asks. "I thought you were Mister Social Justice, and now you're bankrolling the _mob_?"

"It's none of your business," Sam says sharply. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Was it really for city council?" Dean presses. "C'mon, Sam, you're loaded. There have got to be better ways –"

"No, there _weren't_," Sam snaps. "You don't know the first thing about politics, Dean, and you have no idea what goes on in my world. I want to make change, real change, and that means doing what it takes to get things done. There are compromises you have to make. I'm not proud of some of the things I've done, but I've changed this city for the better, and when I'm in the Senate –"

"_Compromises_?" Dean asks incredulously. "So what, the ends justify the means? Sammy, the second these guys are in hot water, they're gonna flip on you, and your _ends_ are gonna be jack shit."

Sam steps in close. "I know what I'm doing," he says in a hard voice. "And when I'm done, this city and this state and this _country_ is going to be cleaned of the Morettis and everybody like them. But in the meantime, I have to play the game. They control the labor unions, Dean. I'm on a labor platform. They would have blocked my election. I had to get them in my pocket."

"Are they really in your pocket?" Dean demands. "Or are you in theirs?"

"Whatever dirt they have on me, I have twice as much on them," Sam insists. "Trust me, Dean, I _know what I'm doing_."

Dean's nostrils flare. "You don't know anything. You don't even know who they really are."

Sam frowns. "They're thugs."

"You heard of the Syndicate?" Dean asks.

"Which syndicate?"

"_The_ Syndicate."

Sam's frown deepens. "No."

And Dean isn't sure if he's telling the truth, because he realizes now that he doesn't know Sam well enough anymore to see through his lies. But he hopes he is.

"You have no idea who you're tangling with," Dean warns him. "This goes way, way higher than the Morettis, and you're in way over your head."

Sam stands straighter. "Did Castiel tell you that?"

"Not all of it," Dean lies. "But he set me on the right track."

"Are you sure you can trust him?" Sam asks.

"You tell me. You're the one who hired him," Dean replies.

Sam narrows his eyes. "That's not what I asked. Didn't you call me up a month ago, claiming he was some sort of secret agent?"

Dean rolls his eyes. "I don't know, I might have. I've done a lot of things I don't remember. I was probably drunk off my ass."

"Yeah, you were," Sam spits back at him. "There are too many coincidences here, Dean. When I hired Castiel, I thought he was way overqualified, but Zach vouched for him. Then suddenly he wasn't working for me, he was working for you. Now he's trying to turn you against me. He's using you – I don't know why, but he's got some kind of agenda, and he's using you, he's trying to – to – get to me, somehow!"

"Sam, Cas is only reason you and I are even on speaking terms," Dean snaps.

"Exactly!" Sam exclaims. "Without Castiel, you and I wouldn't even be having this conversation!"

Dean narrows his eyes at him. "Are you seriously saying to me that you wish you could still be lying to my face?"

"I only lied because it's _none. Of. Your. Business!_" Sam growls. "You weren't here, Dean. You haven't been really here for six goddamn years. You don't get to just wake up one day and decide that all of the sudden you have a say in how I run my life!"

Dean stares at him in disbelief.

He throws up his hands.

"You're right, you're right," he says agreeably. "I'm a drinker, I'm a junkie, I'm an unreliable irresponsible coke-snorting pussy hound, and I've been working my way up to out-and-out killing myself for a couple years now but I juuust never had the stones to follow through." He chuckles sardonically. "So even though you've spent every waking moment trying to give input on how _I_ live, maybe you're right. Maybe it's none of my business."

Sam's eyes widen.

Dean balls his hands into fists, and he stares his brother down. "But at least I gambled with my own life, Sam. The people you're getting into bed with – the people you already _owe favors_ to – you know, _you_ _know_ they kill people. They torture people. They destroy the people who cross them. And now, you're _paying_ them to do it." He clenches his teeth, and his words come out harsh and clipped. "So, why don't you get back to me when you figure out how someone with his head _that far_ up his own ass can possibly look down his fucking nose at the one guy who actually has the balls to tell him that what he's doing is wrong."

He storms away from Sam, back towards the house, his lungs tight and his eyes stinging.

He doesn't know what he expected. This is what he should have expected.

He grabs the nearest framed painting off the wall and smashes it on the ground, splintering the wooden frame. He steps on part of it and snaps it in half, and then he tears up the artwork, convincing himself that he is furious, that's what he's feeling, that's what's burning in his eyes, squeezing in his chest: he's furious, furious, furious, because anger can drown out anything.


	30. Chapter 30

A/N: _Oh my God, I did NOT mean for this chapter to turn into a mini-hiatus. I know it's tough to stick with a story when it doesn't update for a month, so I really really really appreciate any of you who have hung in there. You guys are what keeps me writing, and without you, I know I wouldn't have made it this far in this fic. All of your reviews mean so much to me. Thank you so much for reading. _

_So, to show my appreciation this chapter, anyone who reviews gets a BRAND NEW TOTALLY AWESOME UNDIAGNOSED ANXIETY DISORDER! Have you ever laid awake at night, unable to stop thinking about all the things you said during the day and scrutinizing each one to decide how badly you fucked up? Have you ever obsessively watched a television show you didn't even like that much because as long as it's on you can stop feeling sick to your stomach for five goddamn seconds? Have you ever deliberately NOT done an important thing because you are so worried about that thing needing to get done that you can't bring yourself to think about it? Well NOW YOU CAN! All for the LOW LOW PRICE OF ohgodwhatamidoingwithmylife ONE REVIEW! Order now, and we'll throw in an extra set of Uncertainty if This is Serious Enough to Actually Need Treatment or Just a Thing Everyone Deals With FOR ABSOLUTELY FREEEEEEE!_

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**5:53 p.m. **

Dean strides into the headquarters of an internationally recognized non-profit organization and smacks his hands down on the front desk.

The receptionist jumps and looks up from his paperwork. "Hello, how can I help you?"

"I'm here for a job," Dean declares.

"Um… our interviews are typically in the mornings, and I don't think we conducted any today," he says nervously. "Did you complete the online application?"

"Nah, I was hoping to get the paperwork here."

"Which position are you applying for?"

"I don't know," Dean muses. "I was thinking maybe something executive? I'm good at managing people. Or I could read to kids or something. People on TV commercials are always reading shit to kids."

"Sir, I don't think we have anything like that posted –"

Dean palms his forehead. "Shit, I'm sorry. Let me clarify." He clears his throat, puts a hand to his chest, takes a deep breath, and looks the receptionist in the eyes. "Hello, my name is _Dean_ _Winchester_, and I would like to work here at the _Mary Winchester_ Foundation."

The receptionist stares at him wide-eyed, and gulps. "L-let me call upstairs and see what we can do."

Dean smiles winningly.

He is escorted down the hall and up five floors to the office of the head of human resources. He braces himself as they walk towards the open office doorway, straightening his back and pulling back his shoulders, preparing for the inevitable.

The receptionist knocks on the door jamb. "Ma'am? I brought Mr. Winchester up to see you…"

Ellen Harvelle sits back in her chair and smiles icily at Dean.

"Hello, Mrs. Harvelle," Dean greets her, sitting down in the chair in front of her desk. "Long time no see."

Her icy smile turns even icier. She may be Jo's mother, but Dean has to admit she's still an attractive woman – professional in her strong-shouldered blazer, shoulder length brown hair and a strong chin that she raises just slightly enough to show her contempt. "You've never called me Mrs. Harvelle before in your life," she says. "Don't start now."

"Okay, _Ellen_," he corrects. "I'm here for a job."

"So I've heard." Ellen clasps her hands on her desk, her fingers interlaced, her cold smirk not quite reaching her eyes. "Boy, a billion dollars just isn't what it used to be, is it? Damn shame. Ran your trust fund dry in half a decade. I guess the hookers and coke weren't gonna buy themselves."

"Oh, I'm still richer than God," Dean assures her. "I'm richer than God's eccentric great-uncle."

She narrows her eyes. "So then what the hell are you doing here?"

"I need work," Dean says. "I'm giving up the Hefner lifestyle and I need something to keep me busy. So, I cracked a newspaper. Turns out the world is going tits up right now, surprise surprise, and I got to thinking and I guess I'd like to try and help fix it, if I can, if that's a thing that can actually be done, which I am _not_ one hundred percent sold on but I guess we owe it to ourselves to try because the whole Mars colony thing is just not panning out. So." He sits back in his chair and shrugs. "This seemed like a good place to start."

Ellen looks at him disbelievingly.

"I'd donate my salary back to the Foundation," he offers.

"All our employees are subject to random drug tests," she points out.

"I'm clean."

"You can't drink on the job."

"I know."

"My daughter is engaged."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know, I saw the rock."

Ellen frowns. "When?"

He crosses his arms. "Jo and I still talk, you know. And that's not a euphemism. We actually just talk."

Ellen's eyes blaze. "You'd better stay the hell away from her if you know what's good for you."

"She's a grown woman," he retorts. "You've never been able to accept that."

She leans forward on her desk, furious. "What I couldn't _accept_ is that you left her for a bunch of Caribbean prostitutes and then refused to give her the time of day unless you could get your rocks off in the process!"

"First off, you two share WAY too much with each other!" Dean rants. "The Gilmore Girls was NOT a how-to guide! Second, the prostitute thing may be true, but the rocks-off part is only half correct!"

Ellen laughs sarcastically and rolls her eyes. "Of all the place you could have gone. Why in God's name did you think _I _was going to give you a job?"

"Because I know Jo," Dean answers. "And Jo is just like you. And if Jo was sitting in that chair right now, she'd hire me."

"No she wouldn't!" Ellen scoffs.

"Yes, she would," Dean insists. "She's smart. She knows I'm popular in celebrity circles. She knows I can get big names to fundraising events, and big names put asses in seats. She knows that when I was working for WI, I had an incredible track record in Acquisitions and I'm fantastic at negotiating. You guys need people on the ground who can work with foreign governments and other NGOs and make shit happen. I can do that. And I'm offering to do it _for free_. Jo knows a good thing when she sees it. She'd hire me on the spot."

"You're a liability, not an asset," Ellen counters. "What makes you think anyone here wants your name associated with this organization? You're here because you've got an image problem and you're hoping to get a few good photo ops with some underprivileged children. Well, I don't give a shit about your reputation. You want a TMZ spread? Go to rehab."

"My name already IS associated with this organization!" Dean argues hotly. "My dad funded this place, and he named it after my mom! I have a right to be here, as much right as anybody!" He's surprised at how warm his face feels, how tight his throat is, how quickly he's losing his cool. "Dammit, Ellen, _please!_ I just want to help! I am so tired of everyone being _right_ about me, I – I'll do the work, I swear, I just want a cha–" The word catches in his throat, cracking, and he sucks in a breath and clenches his fists. "Just give me a chance, please. I'm begging you. Please."

Ellen watches him dispassionately.

"Groveling," she notes. "That's new. I like it."

"Do – do you want more?" he asks. "I can grovel harder. Fifty percent harder, at least."

She turns to her keyboard and moves the mouse around, clicking. "Hmmm. Get on your knees."

Dean blinks. "What?"

She stands up. "Kneel!" she orders.

Dean gets to his knees in front of her desk and refrains from making any inappropriate comments, even though there are several dozen quips ricocheting through his head about the way this is proceeding and the porn he's watched.

"You, Dean Winchester, are unworthy," Ellen declares. "Unworthy for _any_ job I could possibly hire you for, including nighttime custodial services."

"Extremely unworthy," Dean agrees.

"However. Because _I_ am a generous, merciful woman, I have reached deep into my heart – very, very, very deep," she continues. "And somehow I have scrounged up just enough compassion to take pity on you and your pathetic wreck of a life."

"I am not above pity!" Dean chimes in. "Pity is fine with me!"

She walks around her desk and stands in front of him. "I will give you a chance, Dean. _One_ chance. And if you blow it…" She takes his chin in one hand, squeezing tightly, and turns his face up, forcing him to look her straight in the eye. "I will personally step on your testicles, crush them into a pulp, and then use my foot to shove them so far into your body cavity that the doctor will have to surgically remove my stiletto pump from your spleen."

Dean gulps.

"Have I made myself clear?" Ellen asks softly.

"Crystal," Dean squeaks.

She releases his chin and smiles down at him. "Welcome to the team, Winchester."

…

….

**7:23 p.m., at the Winchester Estate**

Miguel is busy reorganizing Dean's watch collection. Dean has hundreds of watches, categorized by manufacturer, model, color, and how much Dean actually likes them, and he's always receiving more as gifts. The watches themselves are sorted into foam-lined trays in a lit glass display case in the downstairs wardrobe room, and they are all logged into a digital spreadsheet. Miguel has just pulled out a few trays and begun adding the new watches to the spreadsheet when he hears someone enter the room behind him. He stops and turns around.

It's Castiel.

The man is dressed in a suit, as usual, and a tan overcoat, but he looks stiffer than usual, his bearing tall and his arms straight at his sides.

"Oh, sorry," Miguel says, "Dean isn't home right now –"

"I know," Castiel says. "I was just taking a look around." He looks behind Miguel to the watches. "What are you doing?"

"I'm logging in the new ones," Miguel answers. He holds up the tablet computer he was using and waggles it.

Castiel squints. "That's part of your job?"

Miguel gives a hesitant smile. "I guess?"

Castiel's head tilts slightly, and he approaches closer, gazing at Miguel. "What _is_ your job, exactly?"

"I'm a personal assistant. I assist Dean, I do whatever he wants done," Miguel answers. Then he smiles again. "Though mostly, I just do what Louise tells me to."

"You replaced Allie," Castiel observes.

"I… didn't know her."

"She was his previous personal assistant," Castiel explains. "The night Dean crashed his car, Allie tried to stop him from driving. He told her she was fired and shoved her. She hurt her wrist. It was settled out of court."

Miguel frowns. "But… I wasn't hired until months after the crash."

Castiel nods. "Yes, they hired a woman named Melanie to replace her. Then, two weeks before I was hired, Melanie suddenly came into a large inheritance and left to tour Italy." He stares at Miguel. "And then, you started work."

He knows. No – he suspects. He suspects, and he doesn't know for sure, and he is trying to get Miguel to tip his hand. But the fact that he _suspects_ – oh, Miguel has blown it, everything is going to be so much harder now, and he still has Dean wrapped around his finger but Castiel was _not_ supposed to find out. And how _did_ Castiel find out, he's been so careful, and they've barely even interacted, and he was _so careful!_

Maybe Castiel doesn't know anything, and he's just being paranoid. Maybe Miguel can still keep things afloat.

"Yes, I remember," Miguel says thoughtfully. "I had only been here a week when you started."

Castiel steps closer. "So, now that you've been here for awhile. What do you think of Dean?"

Miguel puts his hands up slightly and backs up. "Oh, I don't think we should –"

"I'm not asking you to gossip," Castiel says. "I just want an honest assessment. I'm trying to help Dean. You spend more time with him than I do."

"Well, he is a very generous employer," Miguel says. "I enjoy working here. I'm paid very well."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "You know that's not what I'm asking. What do you think of him _personally_?"

Aha!

Suddenly, Miguel realizes that his lack of professionalism is going to work in his favor. Every inappropriate, unbecoming thought that he tried to bury is now his only defense. So: he puts in on display. Neon signs, grand marquee, stadium lighting.

"I – I – personally," he stammers, "well, um, he is – he is…" He swallows thickly and rolls back on his heels. "He's unpredictable. His moods shift from one moment to the next, it's like you can never get a steady – footing. You know? But I think that's what makes him interesting. He presents himself a certain way, almost like he _wants_ to be written off as one-note, one-dimensional, shallow... but there are moments you get glimpses, you can feel – you just sense that he's got this inner world you aren't a part of, a depth and complexity that he tries to hide, and you want…" His face heats up, and he twists his hands in embarrassment. "You want to see it. You want to understand him. The more he shuts you out, the more desperately you want to be let in on his private world."

Castiel is watching Miguel very closely, still guarded, but in his eyes there is a strange… recognition, and Miguel can see that he knows exactly what he's talking about.

"I suppose I'm a little jealous of you," Miguel admits. "It's not my job to understand Dean or befriend him. You get to have a relationship with Dean that the rest of us only…" He blushes and turns his back to Castiel, fiddling with the watches sitting on top of the display case.

"You're attracted to him," Castiel comments.

Miguel spins back around. "No, no I'm not," he blurts quickly. "That's not what I said."

Castiel takes a deep breath and sighs wearily. "It's alright. Dean has that effect on people."

"Please don't tell Louise," Miguel pleads. "I'll remain professional, I promise."

"You're not in trouble," Castiel tells him. There is a knowing resignation in his face, and his mouth twists upward slightly. "It's not something you can really control."

He's been thrown off the scent, Miguel is sure of it. The tension is gone from his stance, and he seems mildly disappointed, disappointed that this turned out to be something so banal as a crush. Miguel sees his opportunity to turn the tables, and he takes it.

"Dean came to talk to me this morning," he says. "And I think it was about… you."

Castiel frowns. "What do you mean?"

"He wanted to talk to me because he's having serious feelings for a man," Miguel answers, "and it's very confusing for him."

Castiel sighs heavily again and looks away from Miguel. "Dean is… going through a difficult time," he mutters. "He's not having feelings. He's just lonely."

"Why is that mutually exclusive?" Miguel asks. "Can't lonely people have feelings?"

Castiel glances back at him sharply.

"Sorry," he apologizes, "but… you seem to be very dismissive about it, and I understand it's probably uncomfortable for you to deal with. But writing it off as loneliness doesn't really help Dean. He knows it's unreciprocated, Castiel, but clearly, the fact that he reached out to _me_, of all people –" He blushes again. "Obviously, he's still struggling with it." He sighs. "And it doesn't help that he had another fight with Sam…"

Castiel is instantly at attention. "When?"

Miguel frowns in confusion. "He didn't tell you?"

"_When_ did they fight?" Castiel repeats tersely.

"A couple of hours ago," Miguel answers. "I thought you knew – that's why he left. He told Louise to move all the alcohol in the house to the groundskeeper's outbuilding while he was gone –"

Castiel is already out the door.

…..

**7:57 p.m. **

Castiel tracks down Dean at a midrange casual restaurant in the city, which is crowded and noisy at this time of the evening. Dean is sitting on a stool at the bar, tapping his fingers absently, a half-empty pint glass next to him. The restaurant is dark but the overhead lighting up at the bar is much better, a golden glow shining on the patron's heads, the shadows deeper and sharper.

Castiel walks up behind him. "We need to talk."

Dean jumps and turns around. "Jesus, man! Don't sneak up on me!"

"How much have you had to drink?" Cas asks.

Dean rolls his eyes. "It's just beer. For me, beer is vitamin water."

"How many?"

Dean shrugs. "A few. I dunno. Get off my case. It's after five."

"You fought with Sam?"

"I'm not really in the mood to talk about it," Dean retorts. "Did you come here just to hassle me and be a complete buzzkill?"

"We should go somewhere else," Cas says, glancing around the restaurant. "There are things I need to tell you."

"Can't," Dean says. "I'm meeting somebody."

Cas frowns. "Who?"

Dean snorts. "Who do you think?" There is a resentful edge to his words, but he is looking away from Cas, down at his beer, down at his hands…

Lisa.

Cas sits down on the stool next to him. "Oh. Good."

Dean taps his fingers absently again. No – it's anxiety, disguised as absentminded fidgeting. "We should talk," he admits. "I have a lot to fill you in on. Just not tonight. I can't, right now, I'm… barely hanging on as it is." He takes a quick gulp of his beer.

"Maybe later tonight," Cas says. "After your date."

Dean sets his glass down on its cardboard coaster, very carefully, as though it is very important and takes all his concentration. "Or tomorrow," he suggests.

"… Or tomorrow," Cas says slowly.

Dean glances at him sidelong. Wary, almost, watching for a reaction.

Cas meets his gaze evenly.

Dean rubs the back of his head and turns his face into his arm, chuckles into his elbow.

"What?"

"You just –" Dean wipes his hands down his face. "I can't figure you out, man."

"What do you mean?"

"Eh, I'm just talking to myself," Dean says. "Don't worry about it."

Cas wants to say something about what Miguel told him, but Miguel is part of the larger conversation they can't have here, out in the open, unsecured.

Dean runs his finger around the edge of his glass. "You know, sometimes I think about what it would have been like if I'd met you when I was still working for Dad."

Cas swallows.

"I think I probably still would've been a dick, at the beginning," Dean says, "if you came in hot like you did in real life. I thought I was the shit, I would've taken some convincing. But eventually I'd have come around." He bites the inside of his cheek and taps his fingers on the glass. "I wouldn't have made a pass at you. It wouldn't have occurred to me. I didn't even know that was a possibility, back then. And if I hadn't, then… nothing that happened at the cabin would have happened. And I guess – well, I think we'd be friends. Not like this, but still friends." He looks at Cas, and he smiles, but there is a hollowness in his eyes. "Maybe that's how it was always supposed to be."

Cas puts his hand to Dean's arm. "I think we are what we're supposed to be," he says earnestly. "I don't think it could have happened any other way. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I believe – I truly believe –" His grip tightens on Dean's arm, and he can feel the warmth of self-consciousness rising up his neck and cheeks.

Dean's eyes are locked on his, slightly widened, and he is frozen in place.

"I believe in the order of the universe," Cas says intently, "and I feel that – this – that _we_ – we are not accidental – in some way, we are _meant_ –"

"Um. Hey guys!"

Both men look over to see Lisa walking over, waving hesitantly with an awkward smile.

They exchange a glance with each other.

Castiel drops his hand from Dean's arm and nods at her.

"Hey there!" Dean says.

"Is… this a bad time?" Lisa asks. "Did something come up?"

"No, no, Cas was just updating me on some scheduling stuff," Dean assures her. "He was just heading out."

Castiel takes a deep breath and nods again. "Yes. We'll discuss more later. Nice to see you again, Lisa."

He leaves the bar and goes home.

…..

….

"So, this isn't exactly what I was expecting," Lisa tells Dean over drinks. Well – he ordered a beer, and she ordered a Fresca. But still, technically "drinks."

She looks beautiful, of course. Her long brown hair is soft and straight, and she wore a yellow and pink sundress that perfectly accentuates her push-up bra, and she looks like she stepped out of a catalogue of all the women he's ever dreamed about.

"Oh yeah?" Dean asks. "What did you expect?"

She shrugs. "You know, the classic billionaire thing. It's our first date, and you rent out Grand Central Station or buy an entire skating rink or something ridiculously showy like that, and then I'm like, 'Oh no, this is too much, this is far too much' but secretly I'm super impressed by all the money and power you have."

Dean snaps his fingers. "Damn. You know, I very nearly booked LAX for this."

"Aw, man, that would have been perfect!" Lisa laments. "There is nothing hotter to a woman than being willing to inconvenience thousands of people on a whim. Instant aphrodisiac."

Dean chuckles. "Guess I screwed the pooch on this one."

"Maybe… you can make it up to me," she suggests.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

She crosses her arms on the table and leans forward. "Any ideas?"

Dean looks toward the ceiling and thinks about it. "Well, there is a gelato place we could go to, and I could buy it and then insist that they stop calling it gelato and change the name to 'hipster ice cream,' and then we could eat a bunch of hipster ice cream."

"Hmmm." She gazes at him and smiles, a gleam in her dark brown eyes. "Or, we could get out of here, get a hotel room and have sex."

Dean blinks.

He raises a hand in the air and calls to the bartender, "I need to close my tab!"

Lisa laughs.

….

**9:02 p.m. **

"Oh god oh god yes rightthererighttherethere –"

"Ungh, Lisa –"

"Oh god _don't stop! OH GOD!_"

…

**9:37 p.m.**

"Jesus Christ," Dean gasps, rolling off of her and collapsing into the mattress.

Lisa pants and pushes her hair back from her sweaty forehead. "Holy shit."

"How –" Dean catches his breath. "How are you so flexible?!"

"I teach yoga part time." She looks over at him. "What's your excuse? That was the best I've – and the oral, shit, what were you even _doing_ down there?"

He grins. "I've had a lot of practice."

She turns toward him, laying on her side. "I'm starving now, by the way."

"And that is why God invented room service…"

…..

**10:02 p.m.**

Dean idly grazes his fingertips along her long, beautiful thighs. He notices, for the first time, a very faint set of scars, almost invisible – a long row of short, straight lines, almost like a barcode. "How'd you get these?"

Lisa sighs and gives a half smile. "You never slept with a girl who cut herself?"

"Oh. Sorry." Dean moves his hand away. "I have, actually, it just… looked different. Sorry for bringing it up."

"It's okay. It was a long time ago." She yawns. "High school was not exactly kind to me."

Dean brushes his fingers against her abdomen lightly, and her stomach flinches reflexively. "Hey, that tickles!" she protests.

So he puts his hand more firmly on her stomach, and leans over and kisses her.

When he pulls back, she is looking at him with a strange look in her eyes. "This is fun," she remarks.

He smiles wistfully. "Why do I feel like you're about to say 'but'?"

"Buuut… I'm not looking for anything serious," she tells him, gently. "I just want to be upfront about that."

Dean shrugs. "That's fine with me."

"I would like to do this again," Lisa adds. "Multiple times in the future."

Dean grins. "That's really fine with me."

"I have some standard disclosures I have to make." She props herself up on her elbow. "Wanna hear them now?"

"Sure."

"I don't drink," she tells him. "I don't care if you have a drink, your life is your life, but I don't want to be around you if you get hammered. Okay?"

Dean nods. "Fair enough."

"I'm never gonna be into anal," Lisa continues. "Trust me, I've tried it, I'm not into it, and I'm not gonna change my mind my mind about it."

"Actually, I'm not that into it either," Dean admits. "I mean, it's okay, but it's just so much _work_. The prep time is astronomical."

"I know, right?!" she exclaims. "Anyway, I'm okay with _some_ butt stuff but full penetration is off the table. And… let's see, what else…." She counts off on her fingers mentally and then lights up. "Right! Yes, so, if you've got some specific fetish, you absolutely one hundred percent have to _tell me_ before you try to get me to do whatever it is you're into."

Dean frowns. "Is that not a given?"

She gives him an exasperated look. "If I had a nickel for every time I was fucking a guy and he oh-so-casually suggested I let him come on my feet…"

Dean laughs. "Oh, wow. Smooth, really smooth."

"Anything you want to put on the table?" Lisa asks.

Dean considers for a moment.

"I've had sex with men," he says. "Does that bother you?"

Lisa sits straight upright in the bed and exclaims excitedly, "Oh my god, Dean, can we have a threesome? Ohmygod, a threesome with _Castiel_?!"

"What? No! NO!" Dean exclaims back, perturbed. He sits up. "Number one, you came up with that WAY too fast, and number two, we're not having a threesome with my – _assistant!_"

Lisa makes a _psh_ noise and rolls her eyes. "I saw that weird intense moment you guys were having at the bar. Just imagine if that conversation were happening in a bed instead of a public place. Bim bam boom, you'd both be DTF. Besides, he's hot! And you guys are friends, it'd be fun. And you have no idea how long I've waited to be in a threesome with two men instead of two women!"

"What planet do you come from? Here on this planet, 'friends' do _not_ just get together, crack a few beers and _bang the same chick!_" Dean argues. "It's a bad idea! And besides, I'm – not doing that anymore." He clears his throat. "I'm straight, I just slept with some dudes for shits and giggles. But I realized that's not really… best practices, and all. So, it's ladies only from here on out."

Lisa pouts. "Just think about it, okay?"

For a second, Dean considers telling her the whole truth – about Castiel, and about his own sexuality, and about his career, and about how incredibly complicated things really are, and about how he's sort of hoping that she's going to be the key to curing him of all the stupid unwanted feelings that are still gnawing at him.

But instead he says, "Trust me, he wouldn't be down for it. He's been celibate for eight years."

Lisa looks shocked. "On purpose?"

"On _purpose_," Dean confirms grimly.

Lisa falls back onto the bed with a sigh. "He's a lost cause, then."

Dean pulls her in close and wraps his arms around her waist, her back flush to his chest, and relishes the solid warmth of her body against his. He presses a kiss to the side of her neck and she arches up against him, her smooth legs twining in between his, and he thinks,

_He's a lost cause_.


	31. Chapter 31

A/N: _I'M BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK_

_IS THERE ANYONE STILL OUT THERE? I am so so sorry for the unannounced hiatus. Life happened to me and (as you may have guessed from the previous A/N) and I was having anxiety about all of it, and I realized that I was becoming anxious about being able to keep up with fanfic and it was adding stress to an already overfull stress-plate. Deciding to take a break from the fic was EXTREMELY helpful, but I never stopped thinking about you guys and thinking about the story. I have never, ever, EVER failed to complete a fic, and I would never ever give up on this one. Every so often I'd get a plaintive little review of "Pls update? Pls?" and I'd feel so bad that I was leaving you stranded. But I'm back! And while I can't make any promises about the speed of my updates in the future, I'm going to aim for my previous schedule of a chapter every one or two weeks. Thank you thank you thank you to anyone who is still reading this fic - you have the HEART OF A CHAMPION! HAVE ONE BILLION INTERNET DOLLARS AND ALL OF MY LOVE._

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**Three months ago, ten stories underground in Washington, D.C.**

"Which brings us to…. Month eleven," Castiel says. "At this point, we start focusing on his corporate image."

"Corporate?" Uriel asks skeptically. "You try to install him back at WI?"

The two of them are workshopping Castiel's plan in a spare conference room after hours. So far they've gone through five notepads and three boxes of Chinese takeout. Castiel flips the page on his notepad and scribbles over a few of the notes he's made, adjusting and revising the order of various minute steps in Dean's rehabilitation. "No, I considered it, but… it's too difficult. He may refuse to go back to WI, and I might not be able to convince him to. If he did go back, he would never agree to work under Zachariah, and the board would never appoint him in Zachariah's place."

"Aren't he and Sam the majority shareholders?" Uriel counters. "Why not just stage a coup, throw out the current board, and get himself appointed CEO?"

Castiel snorts. "He and Sam _together_ have a controlling share, yes. But he and Sam are on horrible terms now, and Sam is running for the Senate. By month eleven, he could be a U.S. Senator. Even if I repair their relationship, he would never agree to make Dean CEO in the face of public and corporate backlash." He shakes his head. "No. I'm going to get him a job at the Mary Winchester Foundation."

Uriel laughs. "Doing _what_? He doesn't know the first thing about non-profits!"

Castiel scowls. "It's still a corporation! And besides, it will be fantastic experience for him. After he's worked domestically for awhile, I'll arrange for him to become an international ambassador. He'll build goodwill in the political community and get good coverage in the press, all while focusing on the outward impact of his actions and how to effectively implement programs in communities. Frankly, it will be better training for his political career than WI ever was." He chews the end of his pen. "I only wish he could get more legal training…"

"Month thirteen?" Uriel suggests.

Castiel looks down at his notes and sighs. "Month _twenty_, maybe…"

"I still think you're crazy," Uriel says. "This is all assuming you can get him to agree to work an actual _job_."

"He wants to work."

"Hmph, likely story. He hasn't worked in six years."

"He just needs guidance," Castiel insists. He draws an arrow between two items. "He has passion, Uriel, he has fire. I've seen it. I'll remind him of it. And once he remembers that, all I'll have to do is point him in the right direction." His mouth curves up slightly at the corner. "There won't be any stopping him."

…..

…..

**Present day, the next morning, 8:47 a.m.**

Castiel checks Dean's location on the tracker and comes to pick him up from the hotel. He's confident that he won't be interrupting. Lisa should have already left for her part-time job at the gym, as her shift starts at 9 am and she likes to get a smoothie (usually mango) from the Jamba Juice next door before she clocks in.

Castiel briefly considers whether he's done too much research on Lisa.

To his surprise, Dean is not in his suite. After inquiring with the hotel staff, he finds Dean downstairs, fully dressed and sitting at the hotel bar with an empty champagne flute sitting next to him.

Twice, now. That's twice in twenty-four hours he's found Dean at the bar.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asks, walking up to him.

Dean glances over and grins. "Morning, sunshine!" He flags down the bartender.

"What are you doing?" Cas repeats sharply.

"It's a mimosa, it's a breakfast drink!" Dean declares. "I'm celebrating. I had an _awesome_ night. Why don't you pull up a stool and unclench for a minute?"

"How many have you had?"

"Only two, officer, I swear." Dean rolls his eyes. "Just relax." The bartender brings him another and he quickly gulps it down. "Make that three."

Castiel grabs him by the back of his collar and drags him off of the bar stool.

"Hey hey HEY!" Dean barks, wresting away from him and throwing Cas's arms off of him. "Step off! You try'na start somethin'?"

"You don't get to be 'relaxed' around alcohol," Cas growls. "Not anymore."

"Oh come on," Dean scoffs. "This is totally different. I'm not drowning my sorrows, I'm not even tipsy, I'm just having a drink. I chalk that up as a victory."

"And last night you were just having a drink?" Cas challenges him. "And yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes!"

"And you don't see a pattern?"

"A pattern of you being _up my ass_!"

"It's not even nine a.m., Dean."

"It's a _mimosa!"_ Dean insists. "It's _designed_ to be drunk in the morning! Other people drink mimosas and it doesn't turn them into raging alcoholics, Cas!"

Castiel exhales and feels a heavy weight sinking in his chest. "Do you still not understand how this works?"

"How what works?"

Castiel enunciates his words clearly. "You have a _chemical dependency_, Dean."

Dean flinches slightly and looks away from him. "Keep it down, will ya?" he mutters.

"You aren't like other people," Cas continues. "You have to be more careful. Your body is still dependent on alcohol. You don't get to just drink whenever you feel like it, because you will feel like it _all the time_. You need to set strict boundaries and you need to follow them. You're slipping."

Dean looks away from him and put his palms flat on the bar. He is silent for a long moment.

Finally he says, "Whatever. I'll close my tab."

"You know that I'm right," Cas says.

Dean flushes and clenches his jaw. "You know, I was having a good morning until you got here. For a minute, I was actually…" He shakes his head and exhales angrily.

Castiel feels a sharp pang of regret.

Dean finally looks at him, his eyes hard and resentful. "Did you have to come busting in like that? Did you have to be such a dick about it instead of just talking to me?"

Cas sighs, disappointed in himself. "I'm sorry."

"Whatever," Dean says again tersely. "You win."

"I'm sorry," Cas repeats. He swallows a lump in his throat and admits, "Yesterday I was very worried about you. I worried about you all night. And then I saw you at the bar again…" He puts his hand to Dean's arm. "I overreacted. I shouldn't have been so brusque."

Dean turns red and says, "Maybe just take a Paxil next time. Jesus. You fuckin' helicopter parent."

Cas gives him a slight smile. "I'll take that under advisement."

Dean gazes at him, and his adam's apple bobs. Then he quickly turns and pulls away from Cas, throwing money on the bar and walking toward the exit. "Alright, Asstiel, what's on the agenda this morning?"

"We have a lot to talk about," Cas says, following him. "Someplace more secure…"

…..

…..

Castiel takes him downtown, a shabby narrow apartment building sandwiched between two other rundown brick complexes, a concrete staircase up to the front door that smells like stale urine.

"More secure, my ass. Is today opposite day?" Dean mutters, eyeballing the place suspiciously.

Inside the entryway is a tiny lobby – greasy linoleum, a battered wall of tenant mailboxes, an overflowing garbage can, and a dingy elevator with doors that crawl sluggishly open.

Castiel doesn't say anything. He just leads Dean into the elevator and pushes the button for the top floor. The elevator makes a concerning whine, shudders, and slowly starts to lift.

"If we die here, I'm going to haunt the shit out of you," Dean grumbles.

The doors open with a tired ding.

"You got lucky this time," Dean warns him.

They walk down the hall, around two corners, and finally Castiel stops at an apartment door. He pulls out his key and unlocks the deadbolt, and Dean follows him inside.

Then Dean blinks, wide-eyed, and says, "What the…"

The interior is actually just a short hallway to another doorway, a much cleaner brushed-metal door with a flat panel next to the knob. Castiel presses his hand against it, and gears inside the door click and whirr. Then Castiel turns the knob.

"Welcome," he says.

Dean looks around, stunned. "This… is where you _live_?"

It's a tiny studio apartment. A single bed in the far right corner, a narrow door at the foot of the bed that leads to a cramped bathroom, a kitchenette to the left, a small desk with two flat-screen computer monitors pressed up against the stove, and a tall bookshelf alongside the desk crammed with leather-bound academic texts in various languages. All in a space smaller than Dean's master closet.

"Dude, I _know_ you can afford more than this," Dean exclaims. "Hell, you own a cabin in the woods! Why are you living in Harry Potter's fucking staircase nook?!"

Cas shrugs. "This is all I need. It's just a bolt-hole, Dean. Agents in the field can't live on the Trust campus."

"Oh," Dean says. "So you have a real home on some sort of compound."

Cas hesitates. "Technically, yes. I haven't lived on campus for… some time."

"About eight years?" Dean guesses pointedly.

"It was a security concern," Castiel explains. "When the Syndicate took me, I was compromised. I had to go to ground. Deep cover. Then when I returned, I was back out in the field, moving from assignment to assignment. I've become more comfortable living like this. Solitary." He looks around at the small apartment. "I'm not tied down to this place. I could pack up and leave at a moment's notice."

Dean narrows his eyes skeptically. "You like living out of a box?"

Cas nods.

"Huh." Dean sits down on the bed, glancing around at the room. "Whatever floats your boat then, Boo Radley."

"We have a lot to discuss," Cas says, pulling the chair out from his desk to sit facing Dean.

"Yeah, you keep saying that," Dean replies. "Just spit it out. What's up?"

Castiel places his hands in his lap and swallows.

Where to begin?

_You lie to him every day!_

"Yesterday you had a fight with Sam," he says. "Tell me what happened."

Dean sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "I confronted him about the Morettis."

Cas stares at him. "_What?_"

"I don't think he knows about the Syndicate, he just thinks he's playing chess with some kind of mafia kingpin."

"I explicitly _told_ you not to tip him off!" Castiel exclaims. "Whatever element of surprise we had is completely off the table now! You have _endangered_ –"

"I haven't endangered shit!" Dean interrupts hotly. "You said yourself that the Syndicate can't come gunning for me, I'm way too high profile. And _you –_ Cas, they killed your wife and _tortured_ you, so _I would wager_ they fucking remember you! Whatever game you're playing, the Syndicate already knows we're players."

"So you just decide this without consulting me?!"

"He's my _brother_!" Dean shouts. "I may be a shitty brother but we are still brothers. So fuck you and fuck the Trust if you think I'm not gonna do _everything I can_ to keep him from getting killed in the crossfire of some bullshit turf war he knows nothing about!"

"What exactly did he say?" Cas demands, standing up and glowering, hands clenched into fists. "What exactly was his explanation?"

"He doesn't. Know. Anything," Dean growls. "He thinks he's got dirt on the mob and he's gonna save the world, because he's a fucking knucklehead who drank his own koolaid."

"Charging in, heedless to the consequences, when he's far out of his depth?" Cas scowls at Dean. "I could say the same for you."

"No. I know I'm up shit creek without a paddle," Dean says, lifting his chin, his jaw jutted forward. "But I'll be damned if I let that stop me. If you come for Sam, you better come for me too."

And there is something in the stubborn tone of his voice, the defiance in his eyes –

Castiel's hands fist tighter.

"You're not talking about the Syndicate," he says.

Dean's eyes are sharp and glittering. "I blab to Sam that you're some secret agent and you couldn't give a flying fuck. But for some reason, you didn't want me tipping him off that I knew about the Syndicate. Apparently I could talk about the Trust, but not the Syndicate. But why would that matter? Then I remembered, the Syndicate isn't the only one listening in. And the only logical explanation is that I'm not supposed to _know_ Sam is with the Syndicate, you were never supposed to tell me, and you don't want the Trust to know you spilled the beans."

Once again, Castiel has underestimated Dean. His pulse is racing, even as he keeps his face carefully blank, but Dean is dogged, relentless, closing in for the kill.

"Which begs the question – why is the Trust trying to keep me from finding out? If I were a betting man, I'd say Sam is public enemy number one in the Trust's eyes, and the first thing on the Trust agenda is to take him down. And the Trust knows that if I knew they were planning _that_, I'd never cooperate and I'd bring hell raining down on them in a way only an irresponsible billionaire with an MBA can do." His eyes blaze. "Am I getting warm here?"

"Sam isn't 'public enemy number one,'" Castiel says quietly. "Yet."

"But he will be?"

"If the Syndicate gets their way."

"Which is _why_ we have to help him!" Dean insists. "He's so far up his own ass he thinks he's the good guy here, Cas! _We_ are the only ones who can stop this train from barreling into the station!"

"Those aren't my orders!" Castiel snaps.

"No, they're mine!" Dean counters angrily. "And you _knew_ they would be! You know me, Cas, you knew this is how I would feel!"

"Yes," Cas admits through gritted teeth. "I knew."

"Then why did you tell me? Why did you disobey the Trust and tell –"

"Because it wasn't right!" Cas blurts. "It wasn't right to keep it from you!"

Dean stares up at him.

Cas feels his face grow hot, and he unclenches his hands. He paces a few steps, and then turns back to Dean and paces back.

"Dean, I – I have so many things I need to explain, and I don't know where to start. Except to – to start – if I start at the beginning –" His heart beats fast against his throat, unexpectedly fast, and his chest tightens. He takes a deep breath. "The first time I met you wasn't a couple of months ago. It was ten years ago. And from that day, the very first day I met you, I knew you were my future."

The blood drains out of Dean's face, and his eyes widen.

"I _knew_," Cas forges on, fighting the adrenaline trembling in his hands. "I saw it. I could just see my life stretched out in front of me like a map and everything it had been leading up to and it was _you_, Dean, it all led to me finding you, and to spending the rest of my life helping you accomplish everything you were born to accomplish. And ever since then, I have been waiting for my opportunity to fulfill the destiny I saw laid out in front of me a decade ago." His cheeks burn, and his tongue sticks to the dry roof of his mouth, clumsy and thick. "But I had to hide it from the Trust. They would not approve of how personally invested I was."

Dean stares at him, and croaks, "No shit, Sherlock."

"So when I intervened months ago, and began submitting reports of our conversations and activities," he continues, "I found myself compelled to… edit them. Heavily. To make myself appear more distant and objective than I truly am. But I recently discovered…" He swallows uncomfortably again. "The Trust has been watching us. Watching… me. They know I haven't been entirely forthright, and they're suspicious."

Dean's eyebrows knit together. "Watching you? How do you know?"

Castiel sits back down and sighs, palming his forehead. "There are rumors coming back to me at the Trust. Rumors that could only be started by someone who observed the details I left out of my reports. Someone observing us."

"How?" Dean demands. "You sweep every room for bugs!"

"Think more low tech," Cas suggests dryly.

"A mole?" Dean asks incredulously. "A fucking _spy_ to spy on their other spy? Why even send you in the first place, then?"

"I think it's a test," Castiel answers, sitting forward in his seat. "A test of my fitness as an agent. Ever since… Meg, there have been people in the Trust who question my loyalty, as well as my – capacity. And when I asked to come work for you, I'm sure there were some who questioned my judgment."

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "So who, then?"

"Miguel."

Dean's head snaps up. "Miguel?"

Cas nods. "I'm almost certain. He started working only a week before I did. He thought it was ludicrous when you suggested that we were sleeping together, because he knows I'm celibate. He's the one reporting back to the Trust." He tilts his head thoughtfully. "Incidentally, he also has a crush on you."

Dean glares at him. "You mean, he's been ordered to have a crush on me. Conveniently." He groans and puts his hands to his face. "Christ, is he even gay?!"

"No, I think it's real," Cas replies. "He told me about the conversation you two had, because he wanted to chastise me for being too cold. I can't see any strategic advantage to that. He cares about you."

Dean peeks from between his fingers. "What," he says flatly.

"We can discuss it more in depth later," Cas says. "The point is, Miguel has been assigned to watch me and report back to the Trust. And as I found out yesterday, the Trust now knows about my lack of transparency. So _yes,_ Dean, telling Sam that you know everything _could_ jeopardize our entire mission, because I've told the Trust that you know extremely little and that I _certainly_ haven't disclosed any sensitive information." He glowers at Dean.

Dean smiles sheepishly and raises his shoulders. "Whoops? My bad?"

Castiel is unamused.

"Hey, I'm not a total fuck-up," Dean insists. "I got a job yesterday!"

Cas frowns. "A job? Where?"

"I went down to the Foundation, had a chat with Ellen Harvelle. I don't exaaaactly know what my job entails yet, but I start on Monday," he explains. "I'm pretty sure she's gonna make me unclog toilets for the first month."

Castiel can't quite process what Dean is saying. "You… just asked for a job? It was your idea?"

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, after Sam and I fought, I was thinking about Dad. And how I spent my whole life trying to live up to his legacy. But I had two parents, people always forget that, even I do sometimes, and my dad wasn't the only one with a legacy, my mom had one too, and the Foundation… that's hers. Dad started it, but it's hers. And maybe I've spent all this time trying to live up to the wrong parent –" He picks at the edge of his thumb in his lap and chews the inside of his lip. "Maybe I shoulda spent more time tryin' to make Mom proud, you know?" He clears his throat and looks down at his thumb. "Don't think I've done a good job of that. Don't think… she'd be real proud of me. So…" He clears his throat again and swallows. "Maybe I can work on that for awhile. I can do a lot for the Foundation, and it certainly couldn't hurt to get experience with grants and stuff. Plus, it could help me figure out what I want to do about the schools and all that jazz."

Cas just looks at him, dumbfounded.

On his own. He came up with this idea, on his own, and he went out and got the job, on his own, and he committed to it _on his own_, without any prompting or nagging from Cas, and he has no idea that Cas already had plans for him to work at the Foundation nine months from now, because he's already intuitively, unwittingly lightyears ahead of schedule, because he is Dean Winchester and he is fucking incredible.

Dean looks up at him and sees him staring. "What?"

Cas opens his mouth to speak, but his mouth wants to say _I love you_.

He shuts his mouth.

_I love you. _He can't think of any other way to say it, but he knows how Dean will take it. _I love you_. He doesn't mean it _that_ way – can't, he can't, he doesn't feel it that way, the primal, naked, animal way it sounds like – the way you're supposed to love – but oh, he _loves_ Dean. He loves him. He loves him so much that longing aches in his chest every time he looks at him, an ache like a cracked rib that makes it hurt to breathe, to exist, to stand there and not touch him. He loves him so much that the thought of saying it out loud – _I love you_ – and the thought of having to qualify and explain – _as a friend, of course, platonic love, which still matters, it's real, it still _matters_, Dean – _feels like a nightmare unfolding in front of him; and the thought of Dean's face as each word hits him – hopefulness, then realization, then disappointment, then hurt – feels like a knife in his gut, serrated guilt cutting raggedly through him.

Dean is still looking at him. Waiting.

_I love you_.

"I am… so proud of you," Castiel says hoarsely, and it's the truth. His eyes start to sting, against his will. "I had no idea."

Dean looks taken aback. "Well, uh, thanks."

Cas leans toward him and puts his hand on Dean's knee. "Truly, Dean. You are… you are…" His throat is squeezed tight, and he struggles to keep his voice even. "You have exceeded all of my expectations."

Dean looks at him, a strange expression on his face, and he says in a low voice, "Well. Don't get your hopes up too far yet. I could still get fired."

Cas chuckles. "I don't think you will."

Dean leans slightly forward, his eyes narrowing, his fingers digging tightly into the comforter, and he says, "You… you said we met ten years ago. You're Jimmy Novak, aren't you?"

Cas's pulse races, and the blood rushes to his face.

"Huh!" Dean gives an absent half-smile, staring into space, lost in memory. "You were so ridiculous. Such a nerd. That sweater-vest…"

"I'm surprised you remember."

"I'm surprised I forgot," Dean counters. "I really liked you, I had to keep talking myself out of looking you up aga–" and then he snaps his mouth shut and turns bright red.

Cas smiles, an unexpected happiness tingling through him. It pleases him to know Dean felt something too, that first day they met, when Castiel felt like his whole universe cracked open and he'd always assumed it was wholly one-sided, but here Dean is, embarrassed to admit there was an inexplicable two-way connection, right from the beginning, as though they'd recognized each other from a past life –

And then he realizes that the hand he had on Dean's knee is now resting halfway up Dean's thigh.

Shit.

He pulls his hand back and quickly stands up, clearing his throat and trying to appear nonchalant.

Dean coughs and jumps up as well, looking around the room, everywhere but at Cas. He jams his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels.

"How was, how was your date with Lisa? By the way?" Cas asks.

"Good!" Dean answers cheerfully. "Good. She said she's not looking for anything serious. Do you know how long it's been since a chick said that to me? Most of 'em are trying to get me to put a ring on it. I like her."

"So do I," Cas agrees.

"You know," Dean says casually, "she really wants to have a threesome with you."

Cas stares at him. "_What_."

Dean laughs. "Oh man! I wish she was here to see your face!" He punches him in the shoulder. "Relax, I told her you wouldn't be down for it."

"As though you _would_ be," Cas grumbles.

"Oh, no no no, _God_ no," Dean says vehemently. "It would be the most awkward thing since – oh Christ, just thinking about is wigging me out." He shudders. "She doesn't get it. She doesn't know how weird you are."

"Me? _I'm_ weird?" Cas asks incredulously.

"Yes, you!" Dean retorts. "Mister Sex-Is-Too-Much-Work. You'd probably insist on turning the lights out and playing Enya or some shit –"

Cas frowns. "What's wrong with having the lights out?"

Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation. "During a _threesome_, Cas? Really? That is how you get an elbow to the face or _worse_, knee to the groin."

"That could happen regardless," Cas argues. "That is a risk inherent to sexual activity with multiple partners."

"And then you say shit like that! 'Sexual activity with multiple partners'? Ugh. What if you said shit like that while we were getting freaky? INSTANT mood killer!"

"Obviously I wouldn't be talking during the sex, Dean."

"You don't talk during sex?! No wonder you're so bad at it –"

"I _communicate_ with my _partner_, I just don't hold entire conversations –"

"– and hang on, I wanna come back to the fact that you DO fuck with the lights out!"

"Not every time!"

"Just ninety nine percent of the time, right?"

"I find it _easier_ to _concentrate_ –"

"OH MY GOD."

….


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: _So, estimating this chapter would take "one or two weeks" ended up being WILDLY OPTIMISTIC, AHAHAHA. But not for lack of trying, my friends! This chapter is about 3,000 words, and in the process of drafting it, I wrote **over 8,000 words**. This is my craft at its cruelest, my friends; when you have a story that is 100k long, sometimes you write a scene that seems absolutely brilliant, and then you realize that 1) none of it is necessary, 2) none of it advances the plot OR character development, and 3) you just wanted to write a bunch of flirting, didn't you? Even though the last seven chapters have been NOTHING BUT FLIRTS. And then you have to scrap the entire thing, because of Integrity. _

_However, the good news is, I did manage to finally finish the damn chapter. AND, you get a special treat with it. Because I can't format this story how I would format a book, I've sort of cheated in order to give you a chance to gird your loins. At the end of the chapter, I've including the heading for the next chapter. For the SUSPENSE! And your reward for reviewing this chapter is OH MY GOD IT'S A GEORGE FOREMAN GRILL! THIS GRILL WILL COOK THE SHIT OUT OF YOUR MEAT! THIS GRILL WEIGHS LESS THAN A NEWBORN FUCKING BABY! THIS GRILL IS IN THE TRUNK OF MY CAR! THIS GRILL IS FREE! GRILL! GRILL! GRILL! GRIILLLLLLLLLLLLLL!_

_Seriously though, somebody take this grill. _

_Enjoy the chapter!_

* * *

**12:31 p.m., the Winchester Estate**

Dean and Cas walk into the foyer of the mansion. "Are you sure you're ready to talk to him?" Cas asks.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Dean says, striding ahead.

Cas catches him by the wrist. "Dean. I'll be in the conservatory. If you need me."

Dean looks back over his shoulder at him and rolls his eyes. "Okay, Mom." He shakes Cas off and walks ahead.

….

Sam is waiting for him on the back patio, sitting at a table under the shade a blue-striped deck umbrella. He's wearing the same white-bread polo shirt and khaki shorts as always; he exudes his same effortless aura of clean-cut living and lazy weekends on the links. Wholesomeness. Americana at its most self-indulgent. Except today, he looks… tired. There are shadows under his eyes.

Maybe the aura is not so effortless.

Dean brings over two frosty glass bottles of root beer, and sets one down on the table next to Sam.

"Thanks," Sam says, glancing at the label.

Dean twists the cap off and sits down in the seat across from him. The chair is turned out towards the back garden, and he doesn't look at Sam directly. "You wanted to talk?"

Sam sits back in his chair, and he looks down at his hands. His voice is quiet, subdued. "When you ran away to Vegas," he says, "you didn't plan on coming back, did you?"

Dean takes a drink. "Not especially."

"And Castiel…" Sam's voice gets even quieter. "He brought you… home."

Dean nods.

"I didn't know it was that bad. I'm sorry."

Dean shrugs. "I didn't want you to know. I didn't want anyone to know."

Sam looks out over the topiary garden and the lush green expanse of Dean's estate, and he takes his root beer, twists off the cap, and drinks it in silence.

The two brothers sit like that for a minute or two. Not looking at each other. Not talking.

"I'm in really deep," Sam says. "I try not to think about it too much because when I do, it scares me shitless." He gives a breath of a laugh. "I don't even know how I got in this deep, it's like, I woke up one day and suddenly I was – _here_, past the point of no return. And the deeper I get, the more it feels like… there's no turning back. Not now. I just have to keep going and pray to God I can pull it off."

Dean bites his upper lip and and rests his bottle on his knee. "Yeah, I know that song and dance."

Sam looks back at him with red eyes. "How?"

Dean gazes out over the topiaries, squinting at the golf green in the distance. "I've tried digging my way out of a hole before." He purses his lips. "This may come as a shock to you, but. It didn't work."

Sam laughs, a slightly broken laugh, and he wipes both his hands down his face. "I'm really sorry about what I said yesterday," he says. "I was –"

Dean waves him off. "No, no, you were right, where do I get off –"

"No, I was out of line," Sam interrupts. "I was a dick. I apologize. You were right to question what I'm doing, I was just being defensive. You… came at me pretty hard. You kind of blindsided me, man."

Dean sighs. "I know, but there's not exactly a good… segue…"

They lapse into silence again.

Sam holds his bottle up and eyes it. "Root beer?"

"I had three mimosas this morning," Dean notes drily. "So it's time for another dry spell."

Sam looks at him, really looks at him. "So what's the deal with Castiel?" he asks.

Dean frowns. "Whaddya mean?"

"What did he say to you?" Sam asks. "You never did explain that. How come you listen to him when you never listened to me?"

Dean considers this question.

He thinks about what happened this morning – Cas found him at the bar and got angry, the way Sam used to, and Dean got shitty and defensive, just like he used to get with Sam, and then unlike Sam, Cas… apologized. Said he was only worried. He wasn't embarrassed or disappointed in Dean, just afraid and overreacting. And Dean was okay with that.

Now, he sees, maybe the way Cas felt is actually the way Sam actually felt all these years. Cas was the just the first one to explain it out loud.

And even if Sam had… would Dean have believed him?

So Dean answers. "You and I – we've had a lot of crossed wires between us. A lot of history. Too much shit between us to see straight. You say one thing and I hear something totally different, and vice versa. Cas and I don't have that, it's a blank slate… He gets me. He understands how I think. I'm shitty at talking things out, but he's figured out how to read me anyway. It's nothing he did specifically. Things are just different with him. _I'm_…. different. With him."

Sam gives a thoughtful nod, absorbing this new information. He lifts his bottle to his lips and tilts it back.

Dean shrugs. "Plus I wanna fuck his brains out."

Sam chokes and sprays root beer out of his nose.

Dean laughs heartily and claps. "I'm just kidding! Oh man, I got you good, I got you so good–"

"Fuck you," Sam gasps, wiping his face and snorting. "Ugh, _Christ_, it burns…"

Dean keeps laughing, and Sam tries to look mad but he laughs a little too.

After the chuckling subsides, Dean asks a serious question. "What are you gonna do?"

"About the Morettis?"

"Yeah."

Sam sighs and sits back in his chair. "I'm in it to win it, Dean. I meant what I said – I really do think that I can make a difference. I can change people's lives for the better. Even though it's not the way I pictured myself doing this, I _am_ doing it. Besides, I… I don't really have a choice at this point. I've come too far. If I quit now, it's all been for nothing. The only way this comes out right is if I keep on going and make it all worth it."

"You have a choice," Dean says. "You always have a choice."

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Castiel's people want to make you governor, right?"

It's Dean's turn to look surprised. "I thought you didn't believe me."

"I do now."

"Well, I want to do it. So it's an easy call."

"And if you didn't?"

Dean shrugs. "I could walk away. It would suck for Cas, but I could walk away."

Sam fixes him with a piercing gaze. "Are you sure about that?"

"Don't you think they'd use any leverage they had?" Dean asks. "Pretty sure I'd know it if they had me dead to rights."

"How do you know? Do you know who they are? Do you even know Castiel?" Sam presses. "I don't mean, have you gotten to know him in the past month. I mean, do you _know_ who this guy is?"

Does he?

He knows different names. Jimmy Novak. Castiel Smith. Dmitri Kravchenko. What does he know about them?

Jimmy: timid, easily impressed Jimmy who blinked at him with owlish eyes, who goggled at his vast domain and his expensive tastes, who listened with rapt attention as Dean spun his latest navel-gazing bullshit.

Castiel: blunt, indifferent to Dean's pettiness, indifferent to his wealth, the man who handcuffed him and drove him into the desert and refused to tolerate Dean's bullshit, who put his hand to Dean's arm and said _I like you_.

Dmitri: A question mark. A black and white photo. The first of a hundred other identities. The first of a hundred unknowns.

Castiel: the one who pressed a gun into Dean's stomach as sweat beaded on his forehead, who told him _I'm well trained_.

Castiel: who shoved Dean's shirttails into his pants, who said _I am irrelevant to this process_.

Castiel: who put a business card in his hand and nudged him toward Lisa, who said _I'm never going to want you the way you want me, _who said _I can't be that, to you_, who said _I wanted you to meet her._

Castiel: who drunkenly pinned him to the sofa and kissed him like an exhausted person falling into a soft bed, sinking with pleasure and happiness and relief and _yes_, finally, _finally_. And he said,_ I wanted to know you, all of you_. And he said, _I knew you were my future._

Castiel: who loves him.

Castiel: who

Cas:

_oh_ _god_

Cas loves him, and it has nothing to do with sex.

Sam is still waiting for an answer.

"I… I don't know," Dean stammers through the light-headed buzzing in his forehead, pulling himself back together, hastily pushing down the unwanted revelations. "I don't know if I really know him. But that's life. You can never really know someone. I mean, do you even know who I am anymore?"

Sam looks at him for a long minute.

"Maybe not," he admits.

Dean nods, and stands up, stretches. "We'll work on that," he says.

"Does that mean… you accept my apology?" Sam asks hesitantly.

Dean shrugs. "Sure, if you wanna be a chick about it."

"Hey, neither of us is crying," Sam points out. "This is the most butch conversation we've had in a while."

Dean snorts. "Our standards have really lowered."

"No kidding, man."

"You wanna stick around for lunch?"

"Nah, I gotta get back to the campaign. We should do dinner this weekend, though…"

…..

…..

Before Dean returns to Cas, he has some business to take care of. He finds Miguel dusting in the TV room and saunters up behind him quietly.

"Miguel," he declares. "Just the man I wanted to see."

Miguel jumps and spins around. "Dean! Hello! Yes! What can I help you with?"

Dean steps minutely closer, slowly but surely invading his personal space. "Funny story. I was just talking to Castiel, and he told me something interesting."

Miguel's eyes widen, and he backs up. "Wh-what did he tell you?"

Dean moves closer again. "He told me that you _sold me out_, cabrón. You told him about our little conversation."

Miguel backs up and bumps up against an end table. He gulps. "Sorry, I – I was just trying to help, I didn't divulge any details, I promise."

"Trying to help." Dean presses his lips together and shrugs. "Maybe next time ask first, eh? I'm a capricious god, Miguel. You do not want to lose my favor."

"Yes s–" Miguel catches himself. "Yes, Dean."

Dean sighs. "Relax, kid, I'm just messing with your head." But he doesn't step back. Instead, he pulls out his wallet and thumbs out a few hundreds. He folds them, and offers them to Miguel. "I got a special assignment for you."

Miguel eyes the money, but does not take it. "What is it?"

Dean lowers his voice, soft and knowing. "You watch me pretty close, don't you, Miguel?"

Miguel swallows and looks panicked.

"Relax," Dean repeats soothingly. "I don't mind. You're just doing your job, right? Watching out for me? But I want you to do me a favor." He taps the money lightly against Miguel's chest. "I want you to watch out for Cas, too."

Miguel looks at him, his brows knotted in confusion.

"Watch his back," Dean clarifies. "Help him with anything he needs. Do whatever he asks. Make sure nobody gives him trouble. Alright?"

"Who would give him trouble?" Miguel asks.

"Nobody, yet." Dean gives him a small, personal smile. "But you can't make an omelet without breakin' a few eggs, my friend. And I'm about to get cooking."

Miguel hesitates, and then takes the money.

"Atta boy," Dean says, grinning. "Knew I could count on you." He claps Miguel on the shoulder and heads for the conservatory.

He knows it's not much, but it's a start to getting Miguel on their side. And little by little, day by day, eventually it will start to add up. Grains of sand, one by one, until one day it may tip the scales in their favor.

…..

…..

"How was your talk with Sam?" Cas asks.

"It was good," Dean says. "What've – what've you been up to?"

Dean's conservatory is less of a greenhouse and more of a sitting room. He's got his own separate outbuildings for tropical plants, so instead the glass-paneled enclosure has a white sofa set, a small table and chairs, a short liquor cabinet, and a few Victorian-style standing lamps. Since it's early afternoon, sunlight paints the room in bright long rectangles, separated by gridlike bars of shadow from the beams and window frames; and Castiel is sitting on the sofa, holding a book, oblivious to the way the sunshine pours over him and makes him look like warm memory. "I've been reading," he answers.

"You brought a book?" Dean asks.

"I took it from your library."

"I have a _library?_ I had no idea." Dean sits down in the stuffed armchair across from Cas. He exhales and ignores the knot of anxiety in his stomach, and quickly twiddles his thumbs.

Cas turns back to his book and flips the page.

"You know, it's funny…" Dean says. "Lisa, she had these, uh, these little scars on her leg. She was a cutter, I guess. She said high school was hard for her. But you'd never think – she's so beautiful and happy, you'd never guess."

Cas is watching him, puzzled, a slight wrinkle on his forehead.

"But then it got me thinking – that's good to know, in a way," he continues. "She's been through some shit, just like me. _Not_ like you," he counters, "your shit is pretty next-level, but shit all the same. And maybe when she figures out how fucked up I am, it won't scare her off, because she knows we all come with baggage."

"That's… a bit of an extrapolation," Cas says slowly, still puzzled, "but I'm sure she already has some idea of the things you've struggled with. I'm sure it will be fine."

"My point is…" Dean licks his lips, chews the inside of his cheek, tightens his fists briefly. "I like her, and maybe she'll end up liking me, and… she might stick around. And, and I know things are just casual right now, but I just wanted to make sure that you're actually okay with… me seeing Lisa."

Cas's face clears. "Of course. I introduced you in the first place."

"I know you're okay with us screwing around. But would you be okay even if – things got serious?" Dean probes.

Cas pauses.

"Because if it's gonna be weird for you," Dean rushes to add, "we'll just keep things casual. You were here first. You know? Lisa wants to be casual anyway, and god knows _I'm_ not in a rush to tie this shit down, I'm just trying to be prepared –"

Cas locks eyes with him, and he looks at him with such intensity and sincerity that Dean feels queasy. "Dean," he says, "I would never want you to subvert your own happiness like that. Why would you think I wouldn't want you to date Lisa?"

"I didn't say that, I just, I don't know, you obviously don't have a problem with the sex stuff, but I thought – and when we… When you…" He rubs the back of his head. "Never mind."

Cas is still looking at him, waiting for him to explain.

Dean scratches his temple and looks up through the glass ceiling panes, away from Cas, out toward the clear wide open sky.

It was stupid, anyway. He was probably just overreacting and imagining that Cas was –

"I appreciate the thought, Dean," Cas says softly. "But you don't need to worry about me."

Dean flushes. "I'm not _worried_," he retorts. "I'm just trying to watch my own ass, okay? I don't need you going Fatal Attraction on me. Besides, one of these days you're not gonna be able to just manhandle me whenever you want. My next girlfriend could be _crazy_ jealous."

Cas's mouth quirks upward. "I'm sure I'll be the least of her concerns."

Dean swallows against a lump in his throat and tilts his head back, looking back up at the sky. "Do you really think I can do this?"

"Do what?"

"Everything. The Foundation, the schools, politics." Dean closes his eyes. "Be honest with me. Do you think I can actually pull this off? Or do you just think it's worth a Hail Mary shot?"

He feels Cas reach out and place a warm hand on his elbow.

"Dean." His deep voice is firm and confident. "I think that 'everything' is just the beginning."

And in this moment, Dean has no idea what that means. But he knows, he knows deep in his gut with more certainty than he's ever known anything in his life, that he will follow wherever Cas leads him. No more running. No more second-guessing. No turning back. From this point on, he's in it to win it.

Time to get cooking.

…

…

…

…

…

…

**Five years later…**

…..


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: _Well. Um. Hello! It's been awhile!_

_Several of you sent messages or left comments to me in the interim. I appreciated every single one of them. I ... didn't reply to most. It was nothing against you, my dear readers! In fact, it very much heartened me that people still cared about the story after so long. But I felt EXTREMELY guilty about letting the story languish and I couldn't really respond to one message without responding to all of them and the thought of that made me want to hide under a rock and never come out. So mostly I just didn't say anything. I guess I have issues? But you already knew that. _

_What held me back from writing this chapter was a combination of 1) legitimate lack of time and 2) self-imposed pressure to NOT FUCK THIS UP. I mean, when you've written a decent 100k words, the thought of fucking up and ruining the whole thing gets more and more scary. Like, when you watch a five-season TV show and the first four seasons are AMAZING and then the last season is just not as good. It taints the whole thing! And you think to yourself, "They should have just stopped at season 4." I don't want to make my story like that! But I have also pledged to never, ever, EVER leave a story unfinished. Even if the second half of this story is a dumpster fire, at least it will be a_ complete_ dumpster fire. So, here we are. I'm a bit out of my depth. I'm going to make mistakes along the way. Come with me, reader. Learn with me. I will reward you with boys kissing each other. Or, more accurately, boys _thinking_ about kissing each other but then just staring longingly and sighing. Oh, such a sighing there shall be. _

_I hope you like this chapter. We'll see whether or not I've lost my touch. In the next couple days I may re-read and edit, but I will leave a note here if I make any significant changes. _

_Enjoy._

_P.S. I don't want to talk about Donald Trump but his election has actually helped my story in a way. I had things where I was like, "Is this too farfetched that this could happen in U.S. politics?" Now I'm like "lololololol THERE ARE NO RULES YOLO ANYTHING GOOOOOES!" _

* * *

**Five Years Later...**

...

"**Inside Hour" Interview with Dean Winchester**

**Birch**: Welcome to Inside Hour. I'm Lorraine Birch, and tonight I have a very special guest with me. He's a rising new star in state politics, the son of software magnate John Winchester and president of the Mary Winchester Foundation's U.S. Program, who this year made headlines when he won the primary for governor of California: Dean Winchester. Welcome, Dean. Glad to have you on the show.

**Winchester**: Thank you. Thank you for having me.

**Birch**: You've been busy lately, haven't you?

**Winchester**: Yes. You can say that again.

**Birch**: You're running as a Republican, but you're not really a traditional G.O.P candidate, are you?

**Winchester**: (laughs) Well, nobody's accused me of being too buttoned up, that's true.

**Birch**: You break from the party platform in a number of areas.

**Winchester**: Sure. I don't believe in supporting a cause just to toe a party line. I'm fiscally conservative. I believe the government should balance its spending with its earning, and it should limit its spending. That doesn't mean I think there should be _no_ government spending. That's not realistic or, frankly, even desirable. I think most other mainstream conservatives would agree with me there. So the issue becomes _what_ are we going to spend money on, and there has been a lot of… intellectual stagnation in that area. People are happy to harp on the same old talking points. They want to fund the programs that sound the best politically rather than the programs that work the best. And I think I'm more willing to take a critical look at the programs that have been effective and the programs that are financial sinkholes and rethink how we distribute the budget.

**Birch**: You are a proponent of public schools. You recently spoke at the United Nations' World Humanitarian Summit on the importance of providing asylum to refugee children. At the Mary Winchester Foundation, you announced several grants to fund pre-kindergarten education, and you personally contributed seven million dollars in private donations this year to youth organizations throughout the state. Is it fair to say that you're something of a children's advocate?

**Winchester**: Well, it's definitely a big part of my advocacy. At the Foundation we've done a lot of work in the areas of homelessness and health care as well, and I've pushed support for malaria prevention and HIV/AIDs prevention, internationally. But children are… kids are the most vulnerable members of society. In any society. If there's a health crisis in a community, or rampant crime, or poverty and unemployment, we see that affect kids almost immediately. They're sort of the – the, uh, canary in the coal mine, so to speak. And when it comes to solutions, a lot of times kids are the starting point. Remember I was talking about efficacy – programs to help kids are some of the most effective. If you can prevent kids from dropping out of school, they'll have better opportunities at finding jobs. When they have more legitimate pathways to earning money, you see a reduction in crime. _And_ reduction in drug use, _and_ the violence associated with crime and drug use… so there's this ripple effect that goes on and on. So, it's my belief that if you can address the crises that are facing our children, you are doing some of the most worthwhile work you can do.

**Birch**: Some of your critics have accused you of using your charity work to promote the Winchester brand. Some have said that you focus on children because you're interested in inculcating brand loyalty among young consumers. What would you say to those critics?

[silence]

**Birch**: Or, to say it another way, they think you're trying to raise children as future customers –

**Winchester**: I understood the question. It's a fair question. I'm just trying to think how to answer it.

**Birch**: Oh. Of course.

[silence]

**Winchester: **It's a cynical age we live in, isn't it? We're… jaded, really. This is what we've come to. We've gotten to a point where if a person wants to make positive change, we think they've gotta have an ulterior motive. 'There must be something in it for that person. There must be something they want.' And that's _smart_, right? We have good reason to think that way. We've been proven right time and time again. Most of the time we're right about those ulterior motives.

But Lorraine, I _had_ everything I ever wanted. It was handed to me, on a silver platter. I'm rich. Very rich. I'm not trying to brag, it's just a fact. I can buy anything. I could buy your television show, if I wanted. I could buy this network. I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. If I want to sell more computers to kids, I can sell more computers to kids. If I want to make more money, I can make more money.

But I already have money. And I can tell you, from experience, from the darkest days of my life, that wealth is not the same as happiness. It isn't fulfillment. It isn't purpose. It's just… money. Money is relative. Its only value is what it can get you. When you _don't_ have money, when money means putting food on the table or going to the doctor, then it means a hell of a lot. But for someone like me, getting more money means there'll be another transaction between two banks. There will be movement between electronic accounts. A digital readout will change. It doesn't affect me at all. It means nothing. And the moment I realized that difference – what money means to me, and what it means to the people who need it – it became so, so clear to me what I had to do.

So no, I'm not trying to help kids in poverty for the 'brand loyalty.' I'm doing it because I can, because I _should_, because I have the power to do so and the ethical obligation to do it. I'm doing it because I don't want to just stand by and watch people suffer when I know I can do something about it. And if that explanation is not enough for some people, then I guess I'll just have to prove them wrong.

**Birch**: You have a remarkable perspective, Dean.

…..

**October 20****th****, the Winchester Estate, Annual Fundraiser Gala for the Mary Winchester Foundation**

"You should wear the ring," Castiel insists.

"Fuck that shit. Those gossipy motherfuckers out there all _know_ I'm not married," Dean retorts.

The two of them are standing in Dean's closet, putting the finishing touches on his ensemble. Lately, for Dean's public appearances and interviews, Castiel has made Dean wear a plain silver band on his right-hand ring finger.

Cas rolls his eyes. "It's not supposed to make them consciously believe you're married. It's supposed to _subconsciously_ give them the feeling that you are a stable, settled adult without them knowing why."

"_Or_," Dean counters, "you're trying to subconsciously trick me into marrying Lisa."

Cas glares at him. "There is nothing subconscious about it. You should marry Lisa."

"You just like the optics," Dean accuses. He grabs his tie and pulls it around his neck. "You want her to host my dinner parties and stand in all my pictures."

"I can want that and still think you would have a good marriage."

"Don't you start!" Dean turns to the mirror and irritably ties his tie.

Castiel watches him closely.

Dean straightens his tie, takes a deep breath, and turns back to Cas. "Am I good?"

Cas looks into his eyes. "You're overthinking it."

Dean scowls. "You don't know what I'm thinking."

Cas just looks at him.

Dean narrows his eyes. "Shut up."

Cas's mouth turns up at the corner, not quite a smile. He adjusts Dean's collar very slightly, just to get the corners even, and slips a pack of Tic-tacs into his jacket pocket.

"Why don't_ you_ wear the ring if you like it so much," Dean grumbles. "That should keep the fanclubs entertained."

Cas considers the silver band, sitting sadly on a velvet tray among Dean's other neglected jewelry. He slides it onto his ring finger, holding his hand out and eyeing it critically. "Who am I pretending to be married to?"

Dean snorts. "Me, obviously."

"In a secret ceremony?"

"Of course. Secret, but tasteful."

"Does Lisa know?"

"Who do you think officiated the ceremony? Louise was the ring bearer. And Sam, Sam was the flower girl."

Castiel chuckles. "The natural choice."

"You know, you'd be a good husband," Dean muses. "You don't hog the blankets, you keep a gun under the pillow… You're gonna make someone very happy someday."

"That seems unlikely."

"Aw, c'mon," Dean goads him. "You just gotta meet the right woman. Someone who'll take things slow. Like – like a Christian! One who's saving it for marriage."

"I'm a little busy getting you elected at the moment," Castiel reminds him.

"That's gonna be over in two weeks. Then you'll see. You're going to have so much time on your hands."

Cas opens the closet door and rolls his eyes. "Let's focus on winning the election first."

….

….

They enter the ballroom.

The fundraiser is styled in autumn colors, enormous gold drapes hung around the room and dozens of tables covered in scarlet and deep orange satin and centerpieces featuring fallen leaves. At the far end of the hall is a stage and lights set up for the auction; a string quartet plays classical standards in the near right corner; and a mass of guests in mingle in between, glittering crisply in black-tie evening wear and showing off their most ostentatious jewelry. Waiters in dark green vests weave through the sparkling crowd with gold-plated trays of wine and hors d'oeuvres, pinched faces and quick feet, the scent of shrimp and rosemary wafting behind them.

Castiel surveys all of this. "A good crowd," he murmurs.

"Christ, I'm starving," Dean mutters.

Then they are immediately circled by the lesser-known patrons eager to gladhand Dean and the press photographer hoping to catch some candids. Castiel, standing behind Dean's right shoulder, is able to back away and slip into the periphery. He goes to stand at one of the empty cocktail tables. He's somewhat of a known entity now, often caught in the corners of Dean's photographs, commonly recognized among Dean's friends (and more obsessive fans) as his assistant. The exposure actually protects him, in a way. There is still a risk of retaliation from the Syndicate, but it is known that Dean keeps him close and might raise a hue and cry if Castiel disappeared.

Lisa glides over to Dean's elbow and pulls him away from the clingers, effortlessly, charmingly. He smiles at her in relief. She is a stunning display in her scarlet evening gown, a small pearl pendant at her throat, and Dean is her handsome dark backdrop. They are beautiful people.

Castiel sighs.

"Cute couple, aren't they?" Jo remarks, sidling up to him and his table.

"Yes," Castiel agrees. "I don't understand what's holding them back. Lisa would be an excellent partner for Dean."

"Political partner, you mean." Jo raises her eyebrows. She is put together as always, a black wrap dress and blonde curls tossed over her shoulder. "That's what's holding them back. Stop pushing it as a career move."

"How is that a drawback?" Castiel asks, baffled.

Jo frowns at him. "Sometimes I wonder if you were even born on the same planet as the rest of us."

Castiel rolls his eyes. "Yes, it sounds mercenary, but I'm not suggesting they marry _solely_ for Dean's career. They obviously love each other. That's why they're together. It would just be an additional benefit if they married rather than dating indefinitely."

Jo grabs a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and takes a big gulp. "I think you're making a lot of assumptions."

Castiel furrows his brow. "You don't think they love each other?"

"No. I'm sure they do." She flags down another waiter and snatches a bacon-wrapped date. "But they're not married yet because they aren't convinced it's a good idea. Or at least, one of them isn't. My money's on Dean, because Dean. Obviously. The man has issues."

"No," Castiel says slowly, "I think he's hesitant, but… he's defensive in a way I don't normally see. If it were just his fear of commitment, he would tell me." He gazes at Dean across the ballroom.

Dean is talking amiably to another couple with his hand on the small of Lisa's back. He looks so at ease, so natural there. Lisa says something, and he laughs and ducks his head. He laughs brilliantly. His smile gleams and crow's feet form at the corners of his eyes.

Jo eyes Castiel and sucks the bacon grease off her fingers. "Hmmm."

"You're his campaign manager," Castiel says. "Tell him to propose."

She shakes her head. "It's too late to help the campaign at this point. He can't be planning a wedding. He has to be going to every rally he can in the next two weeks. He'll win, with or without her. He came first in the primary and the polling hasn't changed. He's got this in the bag."

Castiel watches as Dean warmly shakes the hand of a gray-haired billionaire, his shoulders straight with effortless confidence. "Yes. He does."

"I better go hit the head. I gotta catch a helicopter to Sacramento in twenty minutes," Jo says. She claps him on the shoulder. "You hold down the fort here."

….

….

It's over an hour before Dean and Castiel speak again. Castiel is sitting at a table in the back of the room, a glass of ice water at hand, staring into space and taking in as much as he can: the bright lights reflecting off every shining surface, the gentle rhythmic undulation of the sea of people, the sound of glasses clinking together and hundreds of conversations bubbling under the sharp occasional violin knifing though the noise and shuffling clattering footfalls on hardwood and one man's footsteps fast approaching with a shorter woman following –

"Cas," Dean says, "I'd like to introduce you to someone."

Cas blinks and looks over at him.

"Castiel Smith, this is Daphne Martin," Dean says, gesturing to a woman at his side. Brunette, white, brown eyes, in her thirties, very pretty, a soft open face and short stature. "She's a _Christian._"

Cas gives Dean a pointed, searing look.

"Well, I'm also a Leo," Daphne interjects, looking uncomfortable. "I am many things."

Dean laughs. "Of course! I just led with that because my friend Cas here is veeeery values-oriented. Aren't you, Cas?"

"I am _also_ many things," Cas says dryly.

"Well, I've got to go make pleasantries with the Grand Duke of Luxembourg," Dean replies quickly. "You two crazy kids have fun without me. Chat! Get to know each other! You're gonna get on like a house on fire, believe me. See ya!" And with that, he dashes off.

Daphne hesitates, then sits down next to Castiel. "Did we just get set up?"

"Yes," Castiel sighs. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, no. It's – fine. I mean…" She laughs awkwardly. "Sorry. I wouldn't mind – I don't mind it, except. Um… Never mind. Sorry."

"How do you know Dean?" Castiel asks.

"I don't, really," she admits. "I'm a friend of a friend of his. Toni Mbanefo? Anyway. How do you know Dean?"

"I'm his assistant."

"Oh, wow. And he wants you… to –"

"He thinks I need to meet someone."

"… But you don't want to. Meet people," she suggests uncertainly.

Castiel looks at her. "I've been rude, haven't I? I apologize."

"No, not at all –"

"It's nice to meet you, Daphne. What do you do for a living?"

"A few things. Right now I'm mainly doing music. I'm a musician. I'm in a band. With Toni. We're sort of alternative indie folk pop, if that's an actual thing?"

"What's the band's name?"

"Face Value."

Castiel starts and stares at her. "You're on the radio."

She laughs self-consciously. "Yeah, our latest album got really… big. We're starting to get a lot more air time. Which is so weird, because we've been doing this since we were teenagers, and all of the sudden – wham. Out of nowhere."

"I like your music. What instrument do you play?"

"I'm the bassist."

"Then you must be the cool one in the group," he says. "Bass players are very cool."

"The cool one? What does that even mean?" she asks, laughing. "Like, 'cool' to me means you were popular in high school. It becomes so meaningless as an adult. You think bass players are cool. I think someone is really cool if they know how to fix a toaster. Do you know how to do that?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, good. Because actually my toaster's broken."

"How did you break it?"

"I didn't do anything to it! It just stopped working one day!"

"Why don't you buy a new one?"

"Um, have you _heard_ of the Pacific Garbage Patch? Because that's exactly how that got started. People chucking perfectly good broken toasters into the ocean."

"I don't think that's accurate…."

…..

….

Miguel wanders through the corridor that used to lead to the master bedroom. Dean no longer lives at the Winchester estate, but he loans out the grounds for charity events and his own parties. Tonight, only the main foyer and the ballroom are open to the guests, but Miguel can take a detour down memory lane. It's strange how little it's changed. It's nearly the same as the day he was hired. The same priceless artwork, hung with dustcloths; the same gaudy décor, although unlit.

Down the corridor, light bleeds from under the edge of a cracked door.

Miguel walks down to the TV room and silently pushes open the door.

It's Dean, slumped on the couch in a full tuxedo, rapt in the thin gray light of TV and snickering quietly at the screen. In the dark, in this moment, he looks almost childish – like a young boy home ready a bar mitzvah or a family portrait, waiting for his parents to drag him out the door.

Miguel knocks on the door frame.

Dean jumps, sees Miguel and looks shamefaced. "I had to get away for a minute," he says. "I can never get a breather these days."

Miguel walks over and sits down next to him. "What are you watching?"

"MacGyver. I used to love this show."

"Me too." Miguel glances over at him. "Are you alright?"

Dean sighs. "I'm tired."

"It's the home stretch. You're almost done."

"You'd tell me, right?" He looks Miguel in the eye. "You'd tell me if I was just making a big fool of myself?"

"I wouldn't let you," Miguel says. "You're not making a fool of yourself."

Dean looks dubious, but he turns his eyes back to the screen.

"You'd tell me if I'm making a fool of _my_self, wouldn't you?" Miguel asks.

Dean frowns at him. "How?"

"I'm voting for you! Don't make an ass out of me."

Dean snorts and shoves him. "You _better_ vote for me, chump."

They watch MacGyver for a few minutes.

"You should really go back," Miguel tells him.

Dean sighs wearily. "I know."

"Just hang in there. At the end of all this…" Miguel puts his hand to Dean's shoulder. "It's going to be worth it. You're going to change the world, I know it."

Dean takes a deep breath and swallows thickly. He looks at him with large eyes. "I don't think there _is_ an end to all this, Miguel. That's what I'm afraid of."

And Miguel can't argue with that, because he knows that Dean is right. Everything up to now has just been a warm up. This is the start of the _real_ task ahead – the beginning of the rest of history.

Instead, he squeezes Dean's shoulder. "One step at a time," he says. "Look how far you've already come."

Dean gazes at him for a long moment.

Then he stands up, and offers Miguel a hand up. "C'mon, Oprah," he says. "Enough with the motivational speeches. Let's get back to the canapes."

….

….

"**Inside Hour" Interview with Dean Winchester**

**Birch**: What do you think your father would think of all this?

**Winchester**: I don't know, honestly. I like to think he'd be proud of the work I'm doing. He started the Mary Winchester Foundation in honor of my mother, who was a doctor. He started it to fund medical research. You know, people never ask me about my mother.

**Birch**: You were very young when she died, weren't you?

**Winchester**: I was four. Sam was six months old. Four is old enough to remember. I remember her.

**Birch**: Has her death influenced the way you see the world?

**Winchester**: Of course. It changed my life forever. But her life was an influence on me too. She was an incredibly caring, compassionate individual. She was the one who pushed my dad to start his own company. She believed in his genius. She was the one who paid the bills when he was working out of his garage. She worked so hard! Society rewards genius. Society rewards the people who have the big ideas. The work she did – supporting that genius, making his work possible, keeping him afloat long enough to get some traction in the world – that's not the kind of work society rewards. But it's critical. I am not my father. I'm never going to have his gift. But I work hard. And I try to be more like my mother. I try to support the talent in other people. I try to make her proud.

**Birch**: If you're carrying on your mother's legacy, who do you think is carrying on your father's?

**Winchester**: The company. Winchester Incorporated is his legacy.

**Birch**: And your brother, Sam. Where does he fit in?

**Winchester**: Sam is one of a kind. He's made his own way in the world and he's become a truly, a true inspiration to me.

**Birch**: Even though he's a Democrat?

**Winchester**: [laughs] Yes, in spite of that.


End file.
